DAY 

OF 
SOULS 


MARLES 

'ENNEY 
IJACKSON 


University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


THE  DAY  OF  SOULS 


'Kid,"  she  said,  "what  did  you  do  it  for?"     Page  334. 


r 


THE 
DAY  OF  SOULS 


By 

Charles  Tenney  Jackson 


Wilh  Illustration!  by 

Paul  J.  Meylan 


NEW  YORK 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT  1910 
THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  F.  E. 


THE  DAY  OF  SOULS 


THE  DAY  OF  SOULS 


CHAPTER  I 

In  the  shelter  of  the  narrow  balcony  which  overhung 
the  stairs  leading  to  his  lodgings  above  the  Family 
Liquor  Store,  Arnold  kissed  his  bride-to-be;  he  held 
her  against  the  cold  railing,  brushing  the  hair  from 
her  eyes,  a  curiously  remorseful  rapture  on  him  at 
the  touch  of  her  warm  lips,  the  remembrance  of  her 
helplessness,  her  fears,  her  trust.  The  lights  of  the  city 
down  the  hill  were  on  her  face,  the  gray  Jew  town 
stared  at  her  through  the  slant  of  the  rain — it  was 
monstrous  under  the  dark.  The  little  mountain  girl 
clung  to  the  man,  hiding  herself  from  the  portent  of 
the  unknown  city,  the  evil  shapes  of  the  trades  fogs 
stealing  from  the  sea.  Through  the  mumble  of  the 
night  the  Lime  Point  fog-horn  moaned. 

Arnold  looked  down  at  the  girl's  head,  he  twisted  a 
wisp  of  her  fair,  damp  hair,  wondering  at  the  fight 
within  him,  the  sweetness  of  this  faith  against  the 
knowledge  that  he  did  not  love  her. 

"My  little  picture  girl,"  he  whispered,  his  gentle  jest- 
ing giving  way  before  her  distress ;  "you  do  care,  don't 
you?" 

"But  I  can't  go  to  your  rooms,"  slie  answered, 
through  half-sobs,  "no — not  till  we're  married." 

"Sylvia,  in  San  Francisco  no  one  cares  what  you  do. 
I 


2  THE  DAY   OF   SOULS 

I  just  thought  you'd  want  to  fluff  your  hair.  See,  this 
curl's  wet — and  this — and  this  prettiest  one  of  all!  I 
just  wanted  you  to  look  your  best  for  that  crazy  crowd 
at  Sedaini's,  where  we'll  dine." 

His  right  hand  slowly  withdrew  from  his  trousers 
pocket.  He  had  no  money — nothing.  Their  clothes 
were  damp  with  fog;  the  girl  trembled  in  his  arms; 
again  she  murmured :  "No — no.  Wait — I  couldn't !" 

"I'll  stay  outside  if  you'd  rather,"  he  answered,  in  a 
strange  simplicity  for  him — a  dark,  lean-faced,  fault- 
lessly-dressed young  man  of  the  city,  politician  of  the 
street,  idler  of  the  midnight,  a  "rounder"  the  town 
would  have  told  you.  "Kid,  I'll  do  just  as  you  wish 
all  my  life  long." 

Above  her  rain-wet  cheeks  her  gray  eyes  smiled 
gratefully ;  always  his  gentleness  won  its  way  with  her, 
and  laughing,  he  clasped  her  and  ran  up  the  remain- 
ing steps  to  the  door  that  faced  on  Happy  Alley. 

"No — no,"  she  protested ;  "John,  we  mustn't !"  but, 
laughing  still,  feeling  a  delicious  novelty  in  her  reproof, 
Arnold  placed  her  through  the  doorway  and,  bending, 
kissed  the  gloved  hand  he  held.  He  had  a  secret  love 
of  the  theatric,  glossing  it  over  with  his  belittling 
humor.  Then,  closing  the  door  he  stood  without  in  the 
drip  from  the  ancient  gable,  looking  down  Washington 
Street  to  where  a  blur  of  water-streaked  lanterns  and 
the  snarl  of  gut  and  kettledrums  from  a  green  lattice 
on  Portsmouth  Square  set  forth  the  wedding  of  Wo 
Hop  Loey,  the  fish  merchant. 

"Why  can't  you  love  her?"  he  muttered.  "She's 
good  and  fine  and  true — the  only  true  thing  in  all  your 
life — and  nothing  stirs  you — nothing!" 


THE  DAY  OF,  SOULS  3 

And  through  the  fog-drift  among  the  mountains  to 
the  north  he  watched  a  single  star,  it  was  from  there 
she  had  come — the  country-up-in-back  beyond  the 
Mendocino  Ranges  and  the  cloud-wrapped  coast. 

The  girl  within  the  room  turned  up  the  dim  gas 
and  looked  about,  sniffing  the  smell  of  tobacco,  leather, 
gun  oil,  rose-leaves  and  liquors  which  was  not  unpleas- 
ing.  Beyond  the  light  she  made  out  a  long  table,  a 
huge  sideboard,  a  black  old  piano,  and  on  a  couch  a 
Mexican  serape,  with  broad  bands  of  red  and  green 
vivid  in  the  gloom. 

Over  the  furniture  and  on  the  floor  were  scattered 
books,  magazines,  sheet  music,  neckties,  hats,  pipes, 
tobacco-boxes,  glasses  and  decanters.  Apparently  noth- 
ing was  ever  set  aright.  The  old  sideboard  held  dishes 
of  exquisite  coloring,  silver  and  ware  of  oriental 
lacquer ;  on  the  table  was  a  brass  brazier  across  whose 
top  were  the  dried  stems  of  a  dozen  roses  whose  petals 
were  falling  upon  a  type-writer;  from  the  portfolios 
and  music  sheets  on  the  piano  rose  a  reproduction  of 
The  Marquise,  but  the  marble,  like  everything  else,  was 
dusty  and  hidden  in  all  sorts  of  careless  accumulations. 
The  walls  were  hung  with  Aleut  baskets,  Iggarote  war 
clubs,  Moro  head-dresses,  bolos,  spears,  grass-plaited 
arrow  cases,  and — in  a  cleared  space — was  a  dirty 
cavalry  saddle  with  ragged  boots,  a  saber  and  the  silk 
guidon  of  a  troop.  Beyond  was  a  hodgepodge  of  ama- 
teur water-colors,  indifferent  oil  paintings,  dulled 
photographs  of  men  and  women,  camps  and  horses, 
ships,  houses  and  landscapes;  while  in  the  farther 
corner,  by  the  gloom  of  the  chamber,  an  immense  and 


4  THE  DAY   OF   SOULS 

hideous  Chinese  god  of  gilt  paper  and  tinsel  cloth  was 
staring  at  the  country  girl. 

She  watched  it  for  a  while,  half-apprehensive  that 
the  malignant  face  would  move,  and  then  murmured : 
"No,  it  won't  harm  me — it's  his — everything  here  is 
'his — his  home — ours!" 

Sylvia  Spring  turned  to  glance  in  the  mirror.  She 
was  small  and  fair  as  a  woman  in  a  story,  with  ador- 
able prettiness ;  her  face,  delicately  pink  to  the  ears  and 
the  wayward  light  hair — a  demure,  merry  little  face 
with  eyes  now  gravely  gray,  but  which  had,  in  the  sun- 
light, a  gleam  of  the  sea's  green.  And  she  was  gowned 
in  the  very  smartest  that  Trinity  County  could  mus- 
ter for  the  astonishing  romance  of  its  South  Fork 
heiress  and  the  city  fellow  who  had  wandered  over  the 
mountains  last  summer  to  put  on  the  "home  talent" 
production  of  Pinafore  for  the  benefit  of  the  Ladies' 
Aid  of  the  Methodist  Church.  It  was  there  she  met 
him — by  the  third  rehearsal  she  had  discovered  that 
he  was  a  marvelous  person;  and  he  that  she  owned 
three  hundred  acres  of  redwoods  near  Camp  Nine, 
where  the  new  railroad  was  coming. 

It  is  something  to  have  a  sweetheart  over  whom  all 
the  other  girls  are  "crazy."  Sylvia,  the  orphan  of  a 
country  minister,  had  never  possessed  one,  and  here, 
now,  was  this  lithe  stranger  with  the  inscrutable  eyes 
and  grave  speeches  of  whimsical  impracticality ;  here, 
without  effort  of  hers,  choosing  her  from  all  the 
younger  set  of  the  Ladies'  Aid ;  and  at  the  end  of  five 
breathlessly  happy  weeks  he  had  told  her  that  he  loved 
her !  Wasn't  it  all  wonderful — most  wonderful  ? 

How  was  it  that  he,  John  Hamilton  Arnold  from  the 


THE   DAY   OF    SOULS  5 

"City" — and  she  had  never  seen  a  place  bigger  than 
Eureka,  where  the  logs  are  hauled  to  tide-water — a 
fellow  who  had  been  a  student  at  the  university,  and  a 
cavalryman  in  the  Luzon  and  Peking  campaigns,  and 
about  the  world  on  a  troop-ship ;  who  had  sung  in  the 
Tivoli  grand  opera  chorus,  and  had  once  "gone  ahead 
of  a  show  that  went  broke  at  Kansas  City,"  all  of  which 
happened  in  some  mysterious,  romantic  past  of  his — 
how  was  it  that  he  should  wander  into  the  green  wil- 
derness of  northern  California,  happen  on  the  im- 
poverished Ladies'  Aid,  and  then  discover  her  to  love 
— love — love? 

She  couldn't  understand  it — "Jack"  Arnold,  who 
knew  all  the  great  people  in  the  world,  and  had  seen 
all  the  beautiful  women,  most  surely !  Ah,  well,  he  had 
asked  her  to  marry  him,  and  here  she  was  after  sixty 
miles  of  mountain  trails  to  the  railroad,  then  to  Eureka, 
and  then  by  the  Corona  to  San  Francisco,  where  he 
met  her  at  the  wharf  and  brought  her  up  through  the 
brawling  streets,  the  splendor  of  the  night,  on  a  cable- 
car  that  clanged  and  clamored  along  a  mighty  hill  and 
shot  them  forth  on  a  wet,  north  slope  of  the  bewilder- 
ing city.  One  didn't  need  to  know, — one  could  just 
trust  when  one  had  a  lover  like  this — so  sure,  so  strong, 
so  superior,  that  even  down-town  in  the  jeering  hub- 
bub, under  an  avalanche  of  lights,  rocked  in  a  sea  of 
hurrying  faces,  he  could  pause  to  be  gentle,  to  be  kind 
and  merry,  asking  of  her  comfort  and  buying  her  a 
bunch  of  violets.  Now,  standing  before  the  mirror  in 
his  room,  she  crushed  the  violets  against  her  beating 
heart  and  stifled  her  pride  in  him,  her  joy  to  be  alive,, 
her  gratefulness  to  God. 


6  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

The  ways  of  her  life  had  slipped,  the  huge  world  had 
engulfed  her;  she  could  only  cling  to  him,  believe  in 
him,  love  him.  She  stared  at  the  misty  eyes  of  the  girl 
in  the  mirror,  finding  now  that  her  lips  were  moving 
in  a  prayer :  "O,  God,  make  me  good,  very  good,  and 
help  him  to  be  good — but  I  know  he's  good !"  she  broke 
in  with  a  sturdy  little  defiance  of  some  of  the  doubts 
the  Ladies'  Aid  had  held  concerning  a  man  who  had 
been  in  the  "show"  business,  a  soldier  across  seas  and 
a  wanderer  at  home. 

She  fluffed  the  last  girlishly  wayward  bit  of  hair, 
and  straightened  the  little  blue  jacket  that  the  dress- 
maker in  Eureka  had  evolved  from  a  whole  pink  sheet- 
ful  of  Parisian  creations.  Beneath  the  jacket,  pinned 
to  the  bodice,  was  a  needle-case  that  contained  ten 
thousand  dollars  in  new  bills. 

"You'd  better  have  Mr.  Arnold  deposit  the  money  at 
once,  dearie,"  said  the  wife  of  the  president  of  the 
South  Fork  Lumber  Company,  after  Sylvia  had  signed 
the  papers  which  gave  half  her  redwoods  to  the  mills. 
"What  bank  does  he  deal  through  in  the  city  ?" 

Sylvia  did  not  know.  John  Hamilton  Arnold,  him- 
self, would  have  been  puzzled  by  the  question.  Just 
now,  in  the  rainy  dark  of  the  balcony,  as  he  waited  for 
his  bride-to-be,  he  was  absently  tearing  up  a  paste- 
board. 

"Bluebell  at  six  to  one,"  murmured  Mr.  Arnold.  "I 
wonder  if  the  mare  has  got  home  yet  ?" 

He  was  thinking  it  rather  a  pity  that  his  country 
sweetheart  had  come  this  unlucky  afternoon  when  the 
book-makers  had  happened  to  "break"  him.  When  he 
met  Sylvia  at  the  wharf  he  had  had  twenty-five  cents — 


THE  DAY   OF   SOULS  7 

ten  for  car-fare  and  fifteen  for  her  violets.  And  then 
to-night  was  the  light-weight  fight  at  Woodward's  Gar- 
dens for  the  championship  of  the  world ;  and  though  he 
had  no  money  he  and  Louis  Ferreri,  the  slot-machine 
agent,  could  get  box-seats  from  Supervisor  McDer- 
mott,  or  Deputy  Sheriff  Jack  Holman,  or  any  of  the 
city  hall  "push,"  through  whose  favor  the  sport  flour- 
ished; or  even  from  Jimmie  Kaufman,  himself,  clerk 
of  the  superior  court,  and  impresario  for  the  pugilists, 
who  was  always  amenable  for  passes  when  approached 
by  one  who  had  political  backing.  And  "Hammy"  Ar- 
nold was  "close  up"  at  the  city  hall,  it  was  said ;  closer 
than  any  man  to  Police  Commissioner  Stillman,  who 
dominated  the  night  life  of  the  town. 

Upon  his  reverie,  as  he  watched  a  cable-car  rising 
along  the  hill  street  above  the  humming  slot,  with  a 
flitting  aura  of  yellow  light  showing  the  grass  tufts 
between  the  cobbles,  to  vanish  in  the  cloudy  heights 
above,  came  Sylvia  with  a  pleasing  suggestion  of  vio- 
lets and  women's  scented  stuff.  The  little  blue  hat, 
matching  the  jacket,  was  roguishly  atilt  over  her  hair, 
which  still  held  a  rain-sparkle  here  and  there. 

"My  picture  girl !"  he  cried  again,  and  bowed  with 
that  grand  raillery  which  puzzled  her,  but  at  which  she 
always  laughed ;  then  kissed  her  hand  with  the  curious 
humility  that  puzzled  her  still  more.  "Now,  we'll  dine. 
You  mustn't  mind  the  crowd  down-stairs,  if  they  stare. 
They're  queer,  but  you'll  like  some  of  them — Sweet 
Mellody,  and  Sammy,  the  fat,  freckled  poet  who  can 
write  anything  under  the  sun,  but  can't  get  it  pub- 
lished." 


8  THE  DAY   OF   SOULS 

"If  they're  your  friends,  Mr.  Arnold,"  Miss  Spring 
said  adorably,  "they're  all  right,  I  know !" 

"Mary  Mellody  is  lame  and  she's  a  shop-girl  at 
Solinsky's,  but  if  Sammy  ever  gets  a  few  epics  and 
things  on  the  market  he's  going  to  marry  Sweet  Mel- 
lody, because  she's  not  strong  enough  to  work.  We  laid 
that  out  to  Sammy  long  ago  1" 

Sylvia  laughed  as  they  went  down  the  rickety  steps. 
A  single  gas  light  at  the  corner  of  Happy  Alley  showed 
the  front  of  the  Family  Liquor  Store,  in  the  window  of 
which  was  Unc'  Pop  Radke's  fly-specked  pyramid  of 
paper  whisky  cartons.  Arnold  opened  a  side  door, 
lifted  his  bride-to-be  down  a  step,  and  she  was  in — a 
saloon ! 

From  among  gray  casks  uprose  Unc'  Pop,  a  drip- 
ping measure  of  red  wine  in  one  hand,  his  apron  a  dull 
purple  from  many  apoplectic  pulls  at  the  siphon  with 
which  he  coaxed  the  raw  claret  from  the  bungs.  The 
bar  of  the  Family  Liquor  Store  was  no  bigger  than  a 
bedroom;  the  green-topped  card-table,  the  lunch  shelf 
with  its  cheese  cubes,  blood-wurst,  crackers  and  mus- 
tard pot,  the  vast  wine  tuns  and  steam  beer  barrels  took 
up  most  of  the  space.  The  back  bar  mirror  was  draped 
in  pink  net  with  gay  butterfly  calendars  pinned  to  the 
voluminous  folds,  while  below  was  Uncle  Pop's  solemn 
array  of  case  goods — Vermouths  and  Chartreuses  and 
Picons  which  no  patron  of  the  Family  Liquor  Store 
ever  drank,  not  even  Louis  Ferreri,  the  slot-machine 
man,  who  had  a  diamond  in  his  watch-fob  and  two  in 
his  cuff-links,  to  say  nothing  of  his  scarf  pins,  and 
therefore  should  know  what  was  in  bottles  formidably 
inscribed  and  warranted.  On  this  back  bar  were  Uncle 


THE   DAY   OF    SOULS  9 

Pop's  glasses,  graduated  like  a  decent  family  out  for 
an  airing,  the  big  aldermanic  biers  leading  the  way,  the 
ladylike  punch  and  clarets,  with  graceful  stems,  fol- 
lowing, the  ports  and  sherries,  like  school-girls,  less 
full-bosomed;  while  behind  toddled  the  waistless 
whisky  "ponies"  and  the  stubby-legged  liqueurs  and 
cordials,  an  infantile  crew  with  shining  faces  striving 
to  keep  pace  with  their  elders. 

"O,  John— a  saloon!" 

"Don't  you  mind — it's  only  Unc'  Pop's,  where  the 
cat  sleeps  in  the  cheese  box." 

The  grocer  parted  his  vast  mustaches  to  word  a  pro- 
test, but  it  was  only  after  the  two  had  closed  the  lace- 
curtained  door  to  Sedaini's  cafe  that  Unc'  Pop  was  able 
to  evolve  his  repartee  and  then  he  bawled :  "Monkey- 
tootle  pizness — vy  don'd  you  pay  vat  you  owe  herein  ?" 

The  country  girl  faltered  again  on  Sedaini's  saw- 
dusted  floor.  She  was  by  another  miniature  bar,  be- 
hind which  sat  a  pock-faced  Italian,  bulbous  as  a  toad- 
stool on  his  high  seat.  In  Sedaini's  there  were  six 
small  tables,  besides  the  long  one  in  a  sort  of  recess  by 
the  kitchen,  each  with  flimsy  cotton  clothes  and  heavy 
china  and  dismal  cruets.  The  walls  and  ceiling  were  of 
dirty  plaster,  cracked  and  eroded ;  and  here  and  there 
were  doubtful  pictures,  scrawls  and  daubs,  while  im- 
mediately above  the  wainscoting  innumerable  litho- 
graphs had  been  stuck  on  and  peeled  off,  year  after 
year,  until  the  area  was  a  splotched  and  fly-specked 
rout  of  colors  and  figures — the  limbs  and  faces  of 
actresses  a  generation  gone;  fierce,  epauletted  Gari- 
baldian  generals ;  gunboat  encounters  of  the  Civil  War  ; 
prints  of  Italian  harlequins;  advertisements  of  Nea- 


io  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

politan  steamship  companies;  employment  agencies; 
politicians'  pamphlets  of  the  Dennis  Kearny  era ;  cigar 
and  liquor  calendars;  pictures  of  prize-fighters  and 
severe  statesmen  from  ancient  weeklies — a  disastrous 
and  slovenly  melange.  The  neat  little  country  girl  drew 
her  skirts  closer  from  the  sawdust,  where  a  stubby- 
eared  cat  was  chewing  a  salami  rind,  dismayed  indeed ! 

At  Sedaini's  you  could  dine  for  two-bits  or  four-bits. 
Nearly  every  one  dined  for  two-bits,  not  so  much  on 
the  score  of  penury,  for  sometimes  even  Sammy  Jarbo, 
the  laundry  route  poet,  had  half  a  dollar,  but  because 
there  was  not  a  radical  difference  in  the  menu — not 
such  a  one  as  to  warrant  a  Lucullian  nicety  of  extrava- 
gance. You  got  the  same  vegetable  soup — menestruui, 
the  same  salami  and  grated  cheese  and  entrees — except, 
if  a  four-bitter,  you  could  have  raviolis — and  the  let- 
tuce Romaine  with  garlic ;  and  then  the  two-bitter  was 
cut  off  from  the  roasted  chicken  and  the  anchovies, 
and  Henri  would  not  bring  you  the  zabaoine  and  would 
scowl  if  you — a  two-bitter— Bordered  the  kirch  or  cog- 
nac. But  with  either  you  got  a  whole  bottle  of  red 
wine,  and  the  sapient  two-bitter,  by  sliding  his  empty 
bottle  under  the  table  and  kicking  it  cautiously  under 
his  neighbor's,  could  protest  he  had  not  been  served, 
and  delude  Henri  kito  bringing  another.  So  time  hon- 
ored was  this  practice  that  Sedaini's  patrons  had  long 
since  kicked  all  the  varnish  off  the  wainscoting;  and, 
when  detected,  equally  honored  was  the  joke  of  Henri, 
the  greasy-brained  Gaul : 

"Bienf  Nex'  time,  M'sieu,  we  connec'  you  wiz  ze 
pipe-line !" 

As  it  is  always  for  the  hungry  man  to  laugh  at  the 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  n 

baker's  jest,  so  would  the  two-bitter  roar ;  and  Henri, 
if  placated,  would  produce  the  second  bottle  all  for 
twenty-five  cents. 

When  Arnold  and  his  mountain  sweetheart — Sylvia 
was  too  far  a- whirl  in  the  adventure  to  protest — tripped 
past  Sedaini's  bar,  the  place  was  vacant  except  for  a 
group  about  the  long  table  in  the  rear,  and  a  waiter  at 
one  of  the  small  stands  where  he  poured  him  red  wine 
from  a  cracked  agate  measure,  and  broke  a  huge  loaf. 
The  people  about  the  large  table  were  in  a  wrangle. 
From  the  curtained  box  window  facing  the  street, 
where  was  the  sole  display  of  Sedaini's  cafe,  Henri 
had  brought  a  gay  salad — beets  and  cresses  and  onion 
tops  and  garlic  greening  over  a  vast  cone  of  fish  and 
lobster.  To  each  guest  in  turn  he  offered  it ;  they  looked 
suspicious:  one  smelled  it;  one  shook  his  head,  and  a 
fat  red-headed  boy  poked  a  finger  into  the  mayonnaise. 

"That  salad,  Henri,"  said  he,  "has  been  in  the  win- 
dow a  week — the  cat  has  slept  by  it  since  last  Sunday 
on  the  same  comic  supplement." 

The  waiter  protested;  again,  to  each  guest  he  of- 
fered the  salad.  In  despair  at  their  refusals,  he  re- 
treated to  the  front,  and,  depositing  the  dish,  conferred 
with  the  pock-faced  proprietor.  Again,  from  behind 
the  dirty  lace  curtain,  Henri  expostulated;  and  then, 
with  Sedaini  advancing  majestically  in  silence  on  the 
table,  he  brought  the  vast,  rubicund  salad. 

The  proprietor  pleaded. 

"Eet  eez  good  salad — I  make  heem  yesta — this  after- 
noon— da  good  lettuce  I  buy — " 

And  the  table,  roaring  at  him,  cast  anathemas  on  the 
salad.  The  proprietor  protested,  objurgated ;  he  called 


12  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

on  the  saints,  and  Henri,  the  waiter,  to  uphold  him; 
he  put  the  dish  on  a  chair,  .the  more  fervently  to 
apotheosize  his  handiwork,  and  one  of  the  guests — the 
young  man  with  red  hair  and  large  ears — deliberately 
raised  his  foot  and  set  it  upon  the  venerable  salad. 
Gone  was  its  usefulness.  The  proprietor  wept. 

"Charge  it  to  Arnold,"  said  the  sallow-faced  man 
who  was  eating  soup  on  a  piano  stool,  and  at  once 
there  was  a  chorus  of  assent :  "Yes,  charge  it  to  J. 
Ham  Arnold!  O,  yes,  let  Hammy  pay  it!" 

Arnold  stood  behind  the  group,  by  Sedaini's  grimy 
portieres,  unseen,  apparently,  but  as  the  short,  fat  poet 
stood  kicking  the  onions  from  his  shoes  and  repeating 
joyously :  "O,  yes ;  let  J.  Ham  pay  for  it — put  it  on 
his  bill!"  he  sighed  patiently  and  gripped  tighter  the 
hand  of  his  bride-to-be. 

The  proprietor  dismally  dissented.  "Meesf  Arnold, 
on  what  he  ow-a  da  me  I  could  retire.  He  got-a  da 
mon,  he  mak-a  da  pay — but  when  he  hav-a  da  mon  ?" 

Mr.  Arnold,  after  his  contemplation,  reached  forth 
a  hand  that  closed  on  the  scruff  of  the  poet's  neck. 
Down  he  plumped  him  on  the  chair,  on  the  green 
and  yellow  wreck  of  the  salad.  The  table  was  in  an 
uproar ;  the  victim  squirmed ;  Henri  called  to  the  Vir- 
gin, to  the  proprietor,  to  the  cook.  Even  Unc'  Pop 
stuck  his  head  fearsomely  through  the  door  from  the 
Family  Liquor  Store.  "Py  Colly,  some  day  dis  monkey- 
tootle  pizness  will  burn  the  block !"  so  the  grocer  glow- 
ered to  the  expressman  at  his  bar. 

And  in  this  scratching  about,  this  gabble,  wide-eyed, 
shrinking,  horrified,  stood  the  bride-to-be  from  the 
country-up-in-back.  Never  had  she  seen  such  table 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  13 

manners ;  in  the  lumber  camps,  at  the  great  cook-houses, 
the  woodsmen  gobbled ;  but  never  was  a  poet  compelled 
to  sit  on  a  salad.  She  caught  her  lover's  sleeve,  she 
dropped  into  the  chair  he  drew  for  her,  to  find  herself 
gazing,  embarrassed,  into  the  surprised  eyes  of  a  pale 
girl  beside  her.  Arnold  placed  her  hand  in  that  of  the 
stranger,  saying :  "Mistress  Mary — here's  the  sweetest 
girl  ever!" 

Mary  Mellody's  fingers  clasped  Sylvia's  warmly. 
Mary  had  a  shortened  leg,  giving  her  a  limp.  She 
worked  all  day  long  at  Solinsky's  counters ;  she  lived 
in  Miss  Cranberry's  hall  bedroom  and  had  not  in  the 
world  a  soul  who  cared  whether  she  lived  or  died,  un- 
less here,  at  Sedaini's,  a  responsive  heart  was  beating. 
But  from  her  cheeriness  she  gave  a  great  pity  to  the 
country  girl. 

"Don't  you  mind!  Ain't  they  all  idiots,  though?" 
she  went  on,  with  a  sprightly  comment,  her  cheeks 
flushed  now  from  the  claret.  "Ham,  you  fool,  ain't 
you  any  manners?" 

"Sweet  Mellody,"  said  he,  "it's  my  last  night  of  bar- 
barism. To-morrow — married!" 

Sylvia's  embarrassment  grew,  and  also  her  new 
friend's  indignation  at  this  evidently  banal  joke.  The 
rest  were  intent  on  Henri,  who  was  on  his  knees  in  the 
sawdust  with  his  salad.  The  young  man  at  the  piano 
ate  his  soup  placidly ;  he  was  Wally  Walters,  the  "rag 
artist,"  composer  of  Dolly  Dunn,  and  The  Eagles' 
March,  who  played  the  piano  of  nights  at  the  Maple- 
wood  Cafe.  Vacant  of  mind,  now,  his  fingers  idled 
over  the  yellow  keys  in  the  Spring  Song,  indifferent  to 
a  dispute  between  Louis  Ferreri,  good-looking,  mud- 


I4  THE  DAY   OF   SOULS 

die-headed,  a  politician  of  the  Latin  Quarter,  and  a 
dark-faced  girl  who  flung  out  Yiddish  phrases  in  her 
scornful  voice.  Miss  Murasky  delighted  to  bait  the 
helpless  Louis  with  these. 

Arnold  had  spread  a  paper  before  Mary.  It  was 
his  marriage  license. 

"John  Hamilton  Arnold,  aged  twenty-nine,  native  of 
Arizona,  resident  of  San  Francisco ;  and  Sylvia  Spring, 
aged  eighteen,  native  of  California,  resident  of  Trinity 
County." 

Sammy  Jarbo,  the  laundry  route  poet,  had  leaned 
familiarly  over  Miss  Mellody's  shoulder.  He  at  once 
started  a  commotion,  which  Arnold  quelled  by  seizing 
his  leg  and  pulling  him  to  a  chair :  "Here,  keep  quiet ! 
I  only  meant  this  for  you  and  Mary." 

But  the  poet  writhed  around  in  such  a  pother  that 
the  marriage  license  fell  to  the  floor,  while  Arnold 
subdued  him.  Sylvia  could  only  nod  to  Mary,  with  a 
blink  of  tears  over  her  soup,  and  whisper:  "To- 
morrow!" 

"Let  me  up!"  stuttered  the  poet.  "I  have  an  idea. 
Married  ?  Romance  is  the  stuff — I've  got  a  lyric  here 
— some  love  dope  somewhere!" 

And  he  fell  to  outpouring  old  letters,  receipts  and 
scraps  from  his  pockets,  all  written  over  indecipher- 
ably,  drooling  off  in  unintelligible  mutters,  as  he  turned 
his  pencil-soiled  memoranda  upside  down  and  around ; 
for  never,  when  the  poet  had  an  inspiration,  or  felt 
moved  to  song,  could  he  make  head  or  tail  of  what  he 
had  written  about.  So  he  glowered  away,  his  divine 
seizure  dying  until  he  fell  into  a  melancholy,  squeezing 
Mary's  hand  under  the  table  and  sighing :  "If  I  could 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  15 

only  get  'em  when  I  feel  'em!"  And  when  Mary 
squeezed  back,  the  short  fat  poet  murmured,  lugubri- 
ous to  this  comforting,  "Sweet  Mellody,  there's  nobody 
just  like  you!" 

On  Miss  Mellody's  other  side  Sylvia  sank  gratefully 
into  a  corner,  glad  that  the  others  paid  her  small  at- 
tention. Presently  her  eyes  widened  when  the  Jew 
girl,  concluding  her  argument  with  Ferreri  in  a  shrew- 
ish retort,  turned  to  her  lover,  rumpling  his  hair  with 
some  sharp  comment.  Arnold  smiled  tolerantly;  the 
young  men  were  accustomed  to  Bernice  Murasky's 
tantrums — with  the  exception  of  Arnold  she  despised 
them  all.  And  to  him — because  he  knew  arias  from 
Lucia  and  La  Giaconda,  and  the  fervid  Italian  operas 
which  she,  a  sullen  girl  in  the  department  of  Solinsky's 
where  plumes  were  sold  to  rich  women,  was  inor- 
dinately greedy  to  hear — she  gave  a  grudging  respect. 

The  Russian  Jewess,  California  born,  an  apostate  to 
her  faith,  was  stung  with  a  passion  for  music,  the 
drama,  riches,  grand  dinners,  all  that  she  dreamed  was 
fine  in  life;  she  wanted  friends  who  knew  of  these 
things,  who  had  seen  the  great  virtuosi;  and  she  had 
none,  except  John  Arnold,  and  he,  an  idler,  a  street 
politician,  indifferent  to  all  that  she  was  gluttonous  to 
revel  in,  seemed  content  with  the  riffraff  of  the  cigar- 
stands,  the  crony  of  prize-fight  promoters,  race-track 
tipsters,  like  Ferreri  and  her  brother,  Mannie,  a  clerk 
in  a  pool-room.  And  he  knew  all  of  La  Bohtme,  and 
had  once  actually  spoken  to  Melba! 

But  he  preferred  to  nod  familiarly  to  the  stock 
players  of  O'Farrell  Street.  The  Jewess  almost  hated 
Arnold  for  his  nonchalant  indifference  to  all  that  was 


16  THE  DAY   OF   SOULS 

denied  her;  the  most  he  would  do  was  to  raise  his 
careless  baritone  in  The  Postillion,  or  The  King  of  the 
Winds,  with  Wally  Walters  pounding  Sedaini's  bad 
piano.  Yes,  she  hated  him,  as  she  did  any  one  who 
had  what  she  lacked.  She  despised  Louis  Ferreri,  but 
at  times  she  debated  whether  she  would  not  marry 
him  and  his  seven  diamonds — anybody  who  could  take 
her  to  the  Tivoli  grand  opera,  night  after  night,  and 
to  supper  afterward.  She  would  have  sold  her  virtue 
for  a  box  during  the  Grau  season ;  her  soul  for  a  voice 
like  Tetrazzini's. 

"Get  me  some  tickets  for  the  Tivoli  to-night,"  she 
pestered  Arnold,  her  brilliant  eyes  on  him.  "Why 
don't  you  keep  in  with  that  bunch?" 

"I've  noticed  that  the  more  I'm  in,  the  more  I'm 
out,  one  way  or  another,"  answered  the  young  man. 
"I  can  get  you  seats  at  the  Alcazar,  Bernice." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  in  scorn,  and  turned  to 
another  girl  who  was  chattering  with  the  pianist  as  he 
idled  through  the  Spring  Song. 

"Nel,  you've  got  to  take  me  to  the  Tivoli — you've 
got  to !"  the  Jewess  burst  out.  "It's  Manon,  and  I'm 
going!" 

Nella  Free  snapped  her  jeweled  watch ;  it  had 
stopped  and  she  glanced  at  Sedaini's  dusty-faced  clock. 
"All  right,  Kid,  I'll  go  anywhere;  I'm  so  tired  of 
sticking  around  the  flat.  I  just  get  wild!" 

The  Jew  girl's  greedy  eyes  shifted  from  Nella's  mar- 
ten collarette  and  the  luster  of  her  plumes,  to  the  but- 
terfly of  pearls  at  her  throat.  She  checked  a  sigh: 
"Tetrazzini !  O,  it's  just  a  glory — that  voice — like  a 
bird  rippling  up  in  the  sunshine !" 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  17 

"Just  grand,"  murmured  Nella ;  but  she  would  rather 
hear  Hammy  Arnold's  singing  of  Dolly  Dunn,  as  the 
vacant-faced  composer  rapped  it  out  on  the  piano : 

"O,  Dolly,  Dolly  Dunn— 

When  the  battle's  fought  and  won, 
I'll  think  of  you  and  your  heart  so  true — " 

"Will  H.  be  there?"  pursued  the  Jewess.  "Get  box- 
seats  and  I'll  wear  my  black  net.  I've  got  the  Batten- 
burg  done.  O,  Kid,  get  box-seats!" 

"Sure.  H.  never  cares  what  we  get.  He  took  me 
to  that  other  opera  and  he  had  on  his  dress  suit ;  but 
his  legs  are  so  short  and  the  tails  were  so  long  that  I 
got  fidgety.  I  said,  'Never  wear  that  rig  again !'  " 

"Was  it  Wednesday  night— Aida?" 

"I  don't  know.  It  was  that  opera  where  the  clown 
comes  on,  one  leg  red  and  the  other  yellow,  and  car- 
ries off  his  daughter,  thinking  it's  the  fat  tenor.  It  was 
just  grand,  and  if  H.  had  had  his  Tuxedo — he  looks 
just  grand  in  his  Tuxedo — " 

The  Jewess  sprang  alertly  to  her  feet.  "Come  on — 
some  of  you  boys  pay  for  this  feed !"  She  pushed  Fer- 
reri's  head  sharply  as  she  passed  him.  "Drink  up ! 
Honest,  Louis,  you're  a  dead  one!  Soak  in  the  Zin- 
fandel  and  lie  like  a  log — Chickar!" 

Ferreri  laughed,  the  easy  defense  of  the  slow-witted. 
He  said  that  he  never  minded  the  "Yit"  and  her  abus- 
ive Yiddish  epithets  which  no  one  understood. 

The  other  girl  turned  with  a  word  to  Arnold,  paus- 
ing by  his  chair. 

He  had  been  idly  wondering  what  his  bride-to-be 


i8  THE  DAY  OF  SOULS 

and  Mary  Mellody  found  to  talk  about  so  industri- 
ously ;  then  it  came  out :  "I  was  going  to  have  it  made 

full  here,  but  she  said  if  I  was  going  to  travel A 

slate  gray,  and  run  the  ruching. . .  .But  gracious,  the 
way  they  hung,  and  that  tight. . . ."  The  young  man 
turned  with  a  smile.  Nella  Free  had  laid  a  small  hand 
gleaming  with  pearls,  for  which  she  had  a  fancy,  on 
his  own. 

"Hammy,"  sHe  murmured,  "are  you  mixed  with 
the  grand  jury?  I  heard  something  to-day." 

"Yes?"  he  asked  lazily;  and  then  with  kind  inter- 
est :  "Nel,  I  wouldn't  get  the  habit  of  repeating  any- 
thing Harry  or  the  police  commissioners  say.  You 
know  how  you  stand." 

"But  I  heard  your  name — I  was  interested.  Harry 
and  that  other  commissioner,  the  little  Dutch  one,  said 
you'd  have  to  testify  to  something — you  were  the  only 
man  who  could  fix  things  right.  You're  cutting  in 
deep  with  the  push,  aren't  you?" 

He  studied  her  a  shrewd  instant :  the  red-brown  hair, 
wondrously  distinctive ;  the  good-humored  face,  rouged 
over  her  freckles;  her  heavy-lidded  eyes,  dark  blue. 
Always  the  careless,  Gipsy-idle,  with  a  dozen  little 
womanly  tricks  at  odds  with  her  restless  sophistication. 
She  was  obsessed  by  her  clothes,  clean,  rich,  over- 
effective.  She  was  self-conscious  from  this  dressing, 
throwing  back  her  furs  with  a  deprecating  shrug  that 
set  the  pearl  butterfly  at  her  throat  agleam,  and  gave 
a  pretty,  bird-like  twist  to  her  white  neck.  Nella  did 
not  belong  in  Sedaini's  tawdry  cafe,  but  she  came  over 
the  hill,  because  the  crowd  "made  her  laugh,"  and  be- 
cause Ham  Arnold  treated  her  differently  from  any 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  19 

man  she  ever  knew.  Besides,  here  her  prettiness  suf- 
fered no  comparison,  nor  were  her  gowns  eclipsed. 

"Nel,"  Arnold  smiled  with  friendly  abstraction, 
"I'm  out  of  politics.  I've  cut  out  the  queer  work. 
I'm  going  to  be  married." 

He  saw  her  surprised  eyes  flit  to  the  girl  from  the 
country  at  the  other  end  of  the  table.  "That  little  girl 
in  blue  ?"  Nella  murmured.  "Look  here,  you  wouldn't 
let  Eddie  Ledyard  and  me  be  friends,  but  you — you  go 
marry  a  good  girl !  Ain't  I  just  as  good  as  you,  Ham- 
my?" 

"Well,  you  know  Eddie's  mother — his  family — "  He 
looked  into  her  eyes,  the  mute  judgment,  the  imme- 
morial wrongs  of  women,  faced  him.  "She  loves  me, 
Nel — you  see  it's  different." 

Nella  Free  stared  at  him  with  a  complex  intent  that 
he  had  never  seen  in  her  restless,  variable  eyes.  "May- 
be he  loved  me,  too,"  she  murmured ;  "maybe  I  had  a 
soul,  too.  But  it's  different,"  she  added  mechanically, 
and  followed  the  Jew  girl  to  the  door.  He  saw  her  a 
moment  in  the  gloom  of  the  hall  leading  to  the  lodg- 
ings above,  watching  his  sweetheart  in  a  curious  ab- 
straction ;  then  she  slipped  into  the  rainy  night,  leaving 
him  an  evanescent  suggestion  of  an  oriental  perfume, 
exhaled,  it  seemed,  from  the  bird-like  twists  of  her 
small,  white  neck. 

The  young  man  rose  and  went  to  his  bride-to-be 
who  was  still  talking  interestedly  with  Mary  Mellody ; 
they  had  discovered  a  surprising  friendship.  Louis 
Ferreri  and  Walters  were  leaving. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  the  fight?"  asked  the  slot- 
machine  agent.  "Kid  Brannan'll  never  get  this  little 


20  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

Chicago  guy  in  a  twenty-round  go,  and  if  Slavin  can 
land  his  left,  it's  dreamland  for  the  Native  Son." 

"I'm  not  going,"  responded  Arnold.  "Sorry,  Louis, 
but—" 

The  slot-machine  man  stared.  That  Arnold  should 
miss  the  thirty-thousand-dollar  championship  battle 
was  incredible.  Then  his  eyes  wandered  to  the  girl 
at  the  other  end  of  the  table. 

"Girl,"  he  murmured,  "girl!" 

"Yes,"  retorted  Arnold,  "I'm  going  to  be  married 
— you  fellows  may  as  well  know  it  now !" 

His  friend's  eyes  opened,  his  jaw  dropped.  "Mar- 
ried?" he  laughed.  Ham  always  was  "joshing"  one 
way  or  another.  This  pretty  girl  was  the  latest,  eh? 
The  muddle-headed  Italian-American  departed,  wink- 
ing at  the  impassive  "rag"  composer — who  was  the 
new  "dame"  that  Arnold  had  picked  up? 

The  sentimentally  vacant  "Wally"  didn't  care;  he 
still  hummed  the  Spring  Song,  which  wrought  itself 
into  vague  variations  of  his  own  improvising. 

When  Arnold  went  back  to  the  table  he  found  his 
sweetheart  sitting  up  very  straight,  her  cheeks  flushed, 
her  eyes  bright,  indignantly  regarding  Mr.  Jarbo. 

"But  I  don't  drink !  I  never,  never  tasted  it !"  cried 
she. 

"Well,  don't  get  mad,"  retorted  the  poet.  "I  don't 
either.  I  got  a  weak  heart,  so  nixy  on  the  salicylic  for 
me.  But  if  I  could,  I'd  turn  out  some  great  stuff.  Yes, 
sir ;  look  at  the  kind  of  stuff  they  turned  out  as  long 
as  we  had  two-bottle  and  four-bottle  men  in  the  busi- 
ness !  Look  at  Shakespeare  and  Byron  and  Burns  and 
Poe !  They'd  get  a  souse  and  go  home,  light  a  candle 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  21 

in  the  garret  and  turn  out  stuff  that's  now  immortal ! 
Yes,"  continued  the  poet  belligerently,  "immortal;  and 
here  I've  got  the  cardiac  thumps  and  have  to  stick  to 
ginger  ale." 

"O!"  gasped  the  little  mountain  bride. 

"Yes,  sir — stay  away  from  the  booze.  Here  you 
come  down  from  the  country  peaceful  and  pure  and 
lofty  and  refined ;  but  you're  no  genius." 

Sylvia  blinked  her  dismay.  She  put  out  a  hand  to 
her  lover.  Drink? 

The  city  had  been  a  vast  surging  of  lights  through 
gray  rain,  shouts,  hurryings,  the  changing  of  money, 
the  smell  of  wine  and  garlic — a  brawling,  hungry  life 
that  cackled  and  jeered,  and  here  a  red-headed  poet 
was  scolding  her  about  drink!  She  shivered  and 
Arnold  put  his  arm  about  her. 

"Come  on,"  said  he ;  "every  one's  rather  crazy,  but 
Sammy's  the  worst." 

The  young  man  waved  his  hand  as  the  pock-faced 
proprietor  looked  expectantly  up ;  Sedaini  growled, 
and  scratched  on  his  tabs.  He  looked  at  Mr.  John 
Hamilton  Arnold's  account  and  sighed  again;  it  was, 
indeed,  overlong. 

Mary  Mellody  and  the  poet  were  now  the  only  occu- 
pants of  the  cafe.  From  the  kitchen  Henri  and  the 
cook  bawled  in  Gallo-Roman  and  clattered  the  dishes. 
Mary  looked  back  at  Sammy,  now  in  process  of  an- 
other divine  seizure,  diving  about  in  his  pockets  for  a 
clean  piece  of  paper.  "Ain't  you  coming  up?"  she 
called  softly,  and  then,  seeing  the  well-known  symp- 
toms, she  stole  away. 

The  poet  glared  into  the  array  of  dirty  dishes  around 


22  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

him  and  he  blew  tobacco  smoke  about;  his  eye  fell 
on  a  paper  on  the  floor.  It  was  the  marriage  license 
of  Sylvia  Spring  and  John  Arnold,  and  on  it  were 
cat  tracks  of  sawdust  and  red  wine.  But  the  poet  did 
not  mind  this ;  he  fell  to  scribbling  on  the  paper,  shov- 
ing away  dishes,  knocking  over  claret  bottles,  rumpling 
his  red  hair ;  his  round  face  f earsomely  contorted  as  he 
wrote  and  erased  and  counted  measures. 

And,  as  always,  he  presently  fell  into  a  melancholy, 
rubbing  his  chin  and  sighing :  "O,  what'll  rhyme  with 
sweetheart?  And  I  wonder  if  love-stuff  is  the  big 
stuff?  Sometimes  it  seems  like  I'd  never  get  nothing 
done!" 

Still  he  was  a  good,  even  an  energetic  poet — as  de- 
cent a  poet  as  one  can  be  on  nine  dollars  a  week.  On 
frosty  mornings,  before  sunrise,  when  all  the  town  was 
still,  one  could  hear  his  laundry  wagon  rattling  cheer- 
fully over  the  cobbles  as  much  as  six  blocks  away. 


CHAPTER  II 

Arnold  led  his  bride-to-be  carefully  down  the  wet 
hill  to  Chinatown.  The  rain  had  ceased  and  the  town 
lights  rollicked,  clean-washed  in  the  wind.  The  coun- 
try girl  was  silent  for  a  time  and  then  she  said: 
"Gracious,  John,  you  live  in  a  queer  place — that  Gran- 
berry's,  up  over  a  tumble-down  old  saloon!" 

"Well,  you  see  the  town  has  rather  stranded  Granny. 
If  I  left,  it  might  be  hard  to  rent  the  front  rooms,  and 
Granny's  been  mighty  good  to  me — to  every  one,"  he 
added  hastily;  "and  I  like  them  all — Unc'  Pop,  and 
Sedaini,  with  his  grouch — all  of  them.  They're  all  sort 
of  stranded  on  the  hill,  and  my  being  there  brings  a 
little  business  from  down-town." 

She  debated,  for  a  time,  this  lame  and  profuse  de- 
fense. "And  they're  so  queer!  But  every  one  seems 
to  be  your  friend." 

"That's  what's  the  matter  with  me,"  he  answered 
drolly,  with  a  smile  beyond  her  simplicity.  "Some- 
times I  wonder  how  you'll  like  it  here,  Sylvia.  The 
fierce  old  town,  the  blazing  city — this  San  Francisco. 
Here — everything  goes !" 

"It's  different  from  the  country-up-in-back,"  she  said 
slowly.  "But  I'll  be  happy  anywhere  that  you  are — 
just  anywhere  that  you  are!" 

Arnold  checked  some  confused  protest  within  him 
at  this  faith.  He  seemed  humbled  when  he  spoke 

23 


24  THE  DAY   OF   SOULS 

again.  "Sweetheart,  some  day  we'll  own  a  hill,  a  big 
sunny  hill,  and  on  the  top  we'll  live — you  and  I.  Sylvia, 
that's  been  a  dream  of  mine  all  my  life  long — to  stand 
in  the  sunshine  on  my  own  hill.  I'm  tired  of  things 
here;  they're  stale.  I've  run  with  a  hard-bit  crowd." 

"Every  one  seems  so  familiar  with  you.  They  call 
you  Hammy,  when  your  name's  John.  I  didn't  like  it 
— Hammy !  It  doesn't  seem  fine  as  you  1" 

"Everything  goes  with  me,"  he  smiled.  "I  suppose 
it's  the  way  I've  let  things  drift.  Sylvia,  some  time  I'll 
take  a  clean  brace — we'll  have  that  little  house  on  a 
hilltop — seems  like  I've  always  dreamed  of  that." 

"And  roses,"  she  added,  "all  about  the  door." 

"You  grand  little  girl !"  he  whispered.  "I  wish  I'd 
known  you — always." 

And  as  they  went  on  through  Chinatown,  he  added 
restlessly :  "Would  you  like  to  walk  down-town  ?  The 
fight — the  bulletins — well,  the  rain  is  over,  and  we 
might  as  well." 

He  took  her  through  Dupont  and  Clay  Streets  to 
Portsmouth  Square,  past  the  squawking  orchestra  on 
the  balcony  celebrating  the  wedding  of  the  fish  mer- 
chant, with  the  black  huddled  group  of  beggars  and 
curious  ones  held  back  by  the  policeman  at  the  door ; 
past  dark  basement  holes,  where,  by  the  light  of  wicks 
burning  in  dishes  of  fish  oil,  goldsmiths  wrought  in- 
tricate oriental  jewelry ;  past  gambling  dens  and  tong 
clubs  where  slant-eyed  sentinels  peered  through  the 
wickers  of  strong  doors  inscribed  with  vast,  grotesque 
characters  in  gilt  and  black  paper ;  past  brothels  where 
silk-trousered  slave  girls  with  gaudy  head-dresses  and 
lips  henna-stained,  their  faces  pallid  yellow,  twisted 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  25 

jeweled  fingers  in  the  bars  of  their  tiny  windows  and 
gibbered  at  passers-by ;  through  narrow,  tortuous  alleys 
amid  thousands  of  shuffling  Chinese  shoes  and  the 
cackling  monotone  of  Chinese  voices.  At  every  door- 
way, in  a  pot  of  sand  burned  the  joss-sticks;  on  the 
corners  were  the  abalone  and  sugar-cane  merchants 
and  sellers  of  betel-nut,  and  the  cobblers  of  spectacles 
and  opium  pipes;  in  the  alleys  the  shrimp  and  fish 
venders.  They  went  through  the  markets  where  glazed 
pigs  and  flattened  Cantonese  ducks  and  strange,  ori- 
ental delicacies  were  hung,  all  adding  to  the  indescrib- 
able street  smell — opium,  fish,  vegetables,  tobacco  and 
— Chinamen — which  is  unlike  anything  under  the 
sun. 

The  little  mountain  girl  had  never  seen  a  Chinese 
habitation.  They  paused  before  a  drug-store  called  the 
"Temple  of  Heavenly  Harmonies,"  where,  in  the  street, 
upon  the  wet  cobbles,  a  priest  was  having  a  devil- 
burning.  He  threw  on  the  fire  handfuls  of  rice  paper 
covered  with  gilt  characters,  and  muttered  incantations, 
while  the  crowd  shuffled  in  thick,  soft-soled  shoes  about 
him ;  then  he  seized  the  whole  boxful  of  gilt  prayers 
brought  to  him  by  a  small  important  Chinese  boy,  who 
had  red  silk  braided  into  his  embryo  cue  and  a  gay 
tunic  of  satin  worked  in  raised  flower  figures,  and 
hurled  the  mass  at  the  devil  fire,  scattering  the  burning 
prayers  in  a  swirl  across  the  muddy  street. 

Sylvia  shrank  away  from  the  devil-burning;  it  was 
ghastly,  unhuman,  even  though  Arnold  laughed  and 
told  her  it  was  a  harmless  matter  of  commerce  paid  for 
by  some  merchant,  and  that  the  Chinese  themselves 
had  small  respect  for  their  Josses,  except  to  use  them 


26  THE  DAY   OF   SOULS 

in  fleecing  the  tourists  who  visited  the  temples.  But 
the  thousands  of  yellow  weazened  faces  with  their 
brute  complacence,  alien,  inexplicable,  gave  the  country 
girl  a  morbid  terror;  she  begged  her  lover  to  go  on, 
and  never  again  take  her  through  this  place  with  its 
stealthy  shuffle  of  feet,  its  silken  glister  of  vice,  its 
choking,  unearthly  fumes  from  the  gratings  underfoot, 
its  acrid  laughter,  its  bald  lights  of  red  and  yellow 
under  the  sodden  drip  of  the  night.  They  slipped 
through  the  dark  little  square  by  the  Stevenson  monu- 
ment to  Kearny  Street,  and  went  on  until  she  recov- 
ered her  composure,  smelling  at  times  of  her  gloves 
and  sleeves  to  see  if  the  reek  of  Chinatown  was  not 
still  on  her. 

Arnold  laughingly  comforted  her;  it  gave  him  an 
indescribable  pleasure  to  have  her  cling  to  him,  to  seek 
him  and  be  sheltered.  He  took  her  on  through  the  wet 
radiance,  and  when  they  came  to  Market,  where  the 
main  streets  of  the  town  converged,  she  again  stopped 
and  shrank  against  his  arm,  for  it  seemed  appalling, 
this  rush  of  people,  this  surge  of  life  under  the  blaze 
of  lights  and  the  pall  of  the  sky.  So  many  people  hurry- 
ing here,  there ;  so  many  purposes,  so  many  lives,  un- 
known, dark,  troublous — who  knew  what  the  city 
covered  ? 

And  while  the  mountain  girl  clung  to  the  man, 
breathless,  suddenly  there  burst  a  terrible  cry  from 
thousands  of  voices,  a  shout  as  of  savages,  rolling  and 
reverberating,  dying  away  and  then  roaring  out,  a 
diapason,  rough,  rhythmic,  becoming  a  mighty  chant 
drowning  all  the  street  noises. 

"What  is  it — O,  what  is  it?"  she  cried;  and  then 


THE   DAY   OF    SOULS  27 

saw,  leaping  to  her  lover's  face,  a  fierceness  she 
had  never  seen;  he  was  staring  past  her  over  the 
heads  of  a  pack  of  people  at  a  square  patch  of  brilliant 
light  on  the  side  of  a  building,  a  white  square  undulat- 
ing in  the  breeze,  which  grew  from  the  base  of  a  vast, 
conicular  ray  shot  through  with  millions  of  raindrops. 
Sylvia  could  not  tell  where  the  mysterious  light  began, 
but  now  a  tremor  ran  through  the  ray,  a  streak  of  black 
letters  leaped  upon  the  undulating  curtain;  and  then, 
from  the  packed  triangle,  from  the  blockaded  cars 
black  with  people  on  platforms,  buffers,  roofs,  from 
the  hundreds  of  yellow-lighted  windows  in  the  canon- 
like  street — from  all  the  forty  thousand  humans  in  this 
smother,  came  the  cry  again,  breaking  from  the  savage 
throat  of  the  city,  overwhelming  all  else,  a  tornado 
beating  on  the  girl  in  the  street.  Appalled,  she  turned 
to  her  lover  who  was  gesticulating  to  a  young  man  in 
the  howl  of  the  crowd.  Then  he  seized  her  arm. 

"Come ;  Benny '11  get  us  a  window.  Kic!,  I  stand  to 
win  five  hundred  if  the  fight  doesn't  go  the  limit.  Come 
— here — this  way !" 

Sylvia  was  hurried  from  the  street,  the  two  young 
men  fighting  the  mob  for  a  way ;  she  was  beaten  and 
harassed,  men  jammed  into  her,  yelling  in  her  ears ;  a 
young  woman  hysterically  laughing,  was  pommeling 
a  mulatto  in  the  back  just  before  her  and  crying:  "O, 
come,  you  Kid — slip  over  th'  right.  It  means  clo'es  fo' 
me — O,  winter  clo'es  fo'  me !" 

Arnold  and  the  stranger  smashed  through  the  hys- 
teria of  the  mob  and  to  the  entrance  of  a  building 
where  Sylvia  was  flung  against  an  old  man  with  a 
patriarchal  beard,  who,  alone,  by  the  elevator  shaft, 


28  THE  DAY  OF   SOULS 

was  capering  fantastically  and  quavering,  a  mere 
squeak  of  senile  obsession :  "Kill  'im,  Kid !  get  'im  on 
the  point!  KilTim!" 

The  two  young  men  hurried  Sylvia  to  the  mezzanine 
floor  of  the  building  and  to  a  dark  office.  The  tumult 
of  street  voices  lessened  so  that  they  heard  the  whip 
of  the  wind  about  the  plaster  gargoyle  above  the  win- 
dow the  host  was  opening.  And  as  they  crept  through 
the  space  the  voices  rose  again,  not  so  loud,  but  with  a 
snarl  of  anger,  as  a  beast  stung  in  the  face  with  a 
child's  goad. 

"Cover  Branny !"  yelled  the  reporter.  "Keep  off  and 
ride  the  storm !" 

Amid  the  howl  of  fury  from  the  crowd  at  the  plight 
of  its  idol,  Sylvia  saw  the  black  letters  dance  on  the 
glaring  screen. 

ROUND  18 

SLAVIN  STRONGER.  CARRIES  THE  FIGHT  AND  STINGS 
BRANNAN  LEFT  TO  FACE,  RIGHT  TO  RIBS.  BRANNAN 
CLOSES  CHICAGO  BOY'S  EYE  WITH  STRAIGHT  RIGHT. 
SLAVIN  LANDS  LEFT  SWING,  STAGGERING  NATIVE  SON. 

The  wavering  lines  of  letters  were  blotted  out.  The 
bellow  of  the  street  people  lessened,  died  away  to  a 
mumble  of  discomfiture,  of  shame  and  outrage;  the 
packed  throng  relaxed,  only  breaking  here  and  there 
into  growls  and  retorts  and  denials,  shuffling  from  one 
foot  to  another,  pushing  out  for  relief  during  the  min- 
ute's intermission  of  the  fight.  The  young  men  in  the 
window  made  a  place  for  Sylvia  in  the  wide  space 
under,  the  protecting  gargoyle,  and  sat  by  her,  their 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  29 

feet  hanging  free.  Arnold  passed  a  cigarette  to  the 
other. 

"This  is  Benny  Hendricks  of  the  Call"  said  he ;  "he 
does  police." 

"My  brother's  a  dentist,"  explained  Benny,  "so  I 
had  the  entree  to  this  office.  Now  that's  a  sight,  ain't 
it?  Look  down  Third  Street — they  haven't  been  able 
to  run  a  car  since  the  eighth  round  I" 

From  the  window,  Sylvia  could  look  either  way.  On 
both  the  newspaper  buildings  the  great  splotches  of 
light  wavered,  and  the  falling  rain  spun  itself  into 
golden  motes  through  the  glare. 

Below,  from  the  store  fronts  on  one  side  to  those  on 
the  other,  the  people  occupied  every  inch  of  pavement, 
gutter,  street  and  car  tracks.  The  clamor  of  the  car 
gongs,  menacing,  strident,  but  unavailing,  rose  in  the 
intermission ;  the  rain-wet  helmets  of  the  police  glis- 
tened as  they  tried  to  fight  the  tracks  clear.  In  the  mob, 
wedged  helpless,  fuming  and  gesticulating,  a  captain 
with  his  raincoat  back  showing  the  gold  braid  of  his 
collar,  sat  his  horse,  cursing  the  blockade  and  his  scat- 
tered detail.  In  the  comparative  silence  of  the  minute 
rest,  the  crowd  put  up  thousands  of  umbrellas  against 
the  dreary  night.  At  once  the  street  looked  like  a  bed 
of  black  mushrooms,  bobbing  slowly  under  the  arc- 
lights,  glistening,  twisting,  scattering  a  little  here  and 
there  as  if  the  wind  had  bent  them,  then  re-forming, 
always  with  that  eerie  bobbing  of  round  bodies  shin- 
ing under  the  arcs  and  the  yellow  outpouring  from  the 
numberless  windows  of  the  buildings. 

The  country  girl  shrank  from  the  sight ;  at  last  she 
had  come  to  realize  that  somewhere  two  naked  boys 


30  THE   DAY   OF    SOULS 

were  fighting  on  a  white  canvas  field,  surrounded  by 
ten  thousand  more  of  these  mad  people  of  the  city ;  the 
rich,  the  great,  the  strong,  bankers,  brokers,  merchant 
princes,  writers,  illustrators,  politicians  and  legislators, 
the  mayor,  and  the  subtle,  real  rulers — the  doers  of 
things  in  the  city,  the  miracle  workers  in  this  diamond- 
point  lust  of  life  they  called  a  city. 

It  was  monstrous  with  evil.  Under  the  night,  under 
the  falling  rain,  she  looked  down  on  the  thousands,  the 
umbrellas,  bobbing  and  glistering  like  foul  blossoms, 
rank,  bulbous — a  black  flower  of  sin,  and  watching  it 
she  suddenly  cried  out  in  terror ;  for  the  groveling  thing 
writhed  and  dissolved  before  her  eyes,  and  instead  of 
the  dull  bloom,  she  was  looking  into  thousands  of  up- 
turned faces,  pallid,  tense,  obsessed,  in  the  slant  of  the 
rain.  She  clutched  her  lover's  wet  sleeve,  but  he  was 
eagerly  straining  his  eyes  past  her  at  the  screen.  On  it 
now,  in  the  wavering  letters,  was  another  bulletin : 

ROUND  19 

KID  BRANNAN  RUSHES  FROM  CORNER  AT  GONG. 
SLAVIN  MEETS  HIM  WITH  Two  RIGHTS  TO  KIDNEYS 
AND  MISSES  LEFT.  BRANNY  JOLTS  HIM  WITH  LEFT 
TO  EAR.  SLAVIN  DUCKS  INTO  CLENCH,  AND  NATIVE 
SON  CUTS  HIM  CRUEL  IN  BREAKAWAY.  BOTH  BOYS 
BLEEDING  BADLY.  BRANNAN  OPENS  WOUND  ABOVE 
SLAVIN'S  EYE  WITH  RIGHT  HOOK.  BRANNAN  SENDS 
HIM  TO  ROPES  WITH  LEFT  TO  JAW  AND  RIGHT  TO 
WIND.  BRANNAN  UPPERCUTS  TO  MOUTH.  .LEFT  TO.  . 
SLAVIN  DOWN.  .HE  RISES  AT  COUNT  OF  NINE.  .RIGHT 
TO.  . 


THE   DAY   OP:   SOULS  31 

The  thousands  under  the  glare  of  the  lights  became 
silent.  Even  the  clang  of  the  street-cars  stopped ;  the 
helmets  of  the  police  were  motionless,  as  though  the 
wearers  had  been  statues.  The  mounted  captain,  with 
one  arm  extended  over  the  vast  throng,  was  a  man  of 
stone. 

In  the  windows,  on  the  car  tops,  on  the  tawdry  foun- 
tain of  the  triangle,  where  boys  festooned  its  outlines, 
not  a  sound  came.  The  girl  in  the  window  heard  Ar- 
nold, by  her  side,  swallow  nervously  with  a  little  cluck 
in  his  throat. 

And  then  pandemonium  broke  loose,  the  street 
belched  a  human  maelstrom — she  turned  her  eyes  away. 

On  the  white  screens  of  the  two  morning  papers 
was  this : 

KNOCKOUT.  .NATIVE  SON  WINS  ! ! ! 

Benny  Hendricks  and  Arnold  were  on  their  feet  with 
a  shout ;  they  were  grasping  hands.  Without  came  the 
bellow  of  the  mad  city ;  they  heeded  nothing — they,  too, 
were  of  it,  drunk  with  it. 

"Thirty  thousand  dollars  and  the  championship 
on  one  punch!"  cried  the  reporter  excitedly.  "Bran- 
ny's  the  boy — Branny's  the  boy — a  knockout — Lord, 
Lord!" 

A  strange  fever  was  in  Arnold's  eyes,  a  lashing  un- 
rest and  doubt ;  his  look  was  on  the  mute  girl,  but  he 
seemed  not  to  see  her,  to  have  forgotten  her. 

She  shrank  still  farther  from  the  window,  from  the 
bellowing  town;  had  the  madness,  whatever  it  was, 


32  THE  DAY   OF   SOULS 

seized  her  lover,  also  ?  What  was  he,  to  whom  had  she 
given  herself  ? 

Fearfully  she  clasped  her  hand  over  her  heart  on 
the  little  fortune,  the  ten  thousand  dollars  under  the 
blue  jacket  that  had  looked  so  brave  in  the  country-up- 
in-back.  He  had  liked  the  little  blue  gown.  He  had 
called  her  his  "picture  girl,"  and  now —  Well,  she 
couldn't  tell — and  then  she  struggled  to  keep  back  her 
tears,  her  doubts,  for  her  lover  had  come  to  hold  her 
close,  soothing  her  so  that  the  awful  street,  the  place 
of  savages,  was  shut  from  her  brain.  It  had  no  light, 
no  sweetness ;  it  crippled  the  good  in  men,  seared  their 
souls. 

The  other  man  had  gone,  and  Arnold  was  saying: 
"Sylvia,  you  weren't  scared,  were  you?  I  thought 
you'd  like  to  see  a  fight  night.  The  lad  who  won  is  a 
friend  of  mine — a  Native  Son  of  the  Golden  West — so 
the  town's  crazy!  Come,  we'll  go  eat  at  Zink's."  He 
suddenly  remembered  that  Bluebell  had  "broke"  him 
to-day,  but  no  matter.  Borrowing  was  the  easiest  thing 
for  Hammy  Arnold;  anywhere  down  the  line  he  was 
a  good  fellow  drifting  easily  on  the  tide  of  the  after- 
midnight.  And  to-morrow  he  could  cash  a  winning 
ticket  on  the  new  champion. 

So  they  went  on  through  the  dissolving  welter  of 
humans,  and  suddenly  from  a  motor-car  a  young  fel- 
low uprose  with  a  shout  at  Arnold.  The  huge  machine 
ground  through  the  crowd,  and  Sylvia  saw  half  a 
dozen  hands  reached  joyously  to  her  lover's.  He  was 
slapped  across  the  shoulders  and  buffeted  about  the 
curb  amid  the  congratulations  of  the  motor-car  party. 
She  could  understand  nothing  of  the  matter  except  that 


Fearfully  she  clasped  her  hand  over  her  heart.     Page  32. 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  33 

Arnold  was  vainly  protesting;  and  then  he  turned 
laughingly  to  her,  and  she  found  herself  lifted  lightly 
upon  the  leather  cushions  of  the  tonneau,  and  the  car 
shot  forward  along  the  shining  pavements.  Past  clang- 
ing street-cars,  carriages  and  motors,  between  dazzling 
lines  of  light  lining  the  thoroughfare  and  the  creeping 
tide  of  people  on  either  side,  the  great  car  leaped,  with 
Sylvia  holding  her  lover's  hand  in  the  comforting  se- 
crecy of  the  cushions.  On  her  other  side  was  a  stranger 
leaning  forward  to  talk  eagerly  with  a  man  in  the  mid- 
dle seat  where  sat,  also,  wedged  in  between  two  men, 
an  astonishingly  pretty  woman  whose  eyes  were 
brighter  and  cheeks  more  glowing  than  any  Sylvia  had 
ever  seen.  The  country  girl  was  introduced  to  none  of 
these  laughing,  intent  strangers;  but  she  was  with 
John  Arnold  and  that  was  enough.  She  clasped  the  lit- 
tle fortune  in  her  jacket's  bosom,  and  whispered  to 
herself :  "I  said  I'd  trust  him  always  and  everywhere, 
and  I  will — will — will!" 

In  the  seat  before  her  was  a  tall,  brown-faced  young 
man  in  a  light  overcoat  and  white  hat,  who  kept  turn- 
ing to  talk  to  the  small  important  one  that  crowded 
her  so  closely  to  Arnold's  side.  Always  he  reiterated 
in  the  jerky  discussions,  to  the  garrulous  negations  of 
the  other: 

"I'll  give  forty  thousand  for  the  match,  Broughton 
— winner  take  all,  or  sixty-five  and  thirty-five  on  a 
sixty  per  cent,  split — and  one  hundred  and  thirty-three 
ring-side,  or  at  three  o'clock — anyway  they  like.  Forty 
thousand  for  the  fight." 

And  the  short  man,  steadying  himself  in  the  plung- 
ing car,  kept  crying  out :  "What's  that  ? — what's  that? 


34  THE  DAY   OF   SOULS 

Tex,  I  don't  think  hell  fight  a  nigger — what's  that? — 
I  said  nigger!  What? — "  and  above  the  laughter  and 
the  joyous  voices  in  the  car  and  the  street  tumult,  the 
sporting  editor,  who  was  somewhat  deaf,  kept  repeat- 
ing: "What — what?  I  said  nigger? — O,  yes — it'd 
draw — if  he'd  fight  the  nigger !" 

The  great  machine  stopped  with  surprising  sudden- 
ness and  some  one  swung  the  door.  Arnold  and  Sylvia 
and  three  of  the  men  were  on  the  sidewalk  before  the 
entrance  of  a  cafe — the  front  of  a  building  set  every- 
where in  colored  glass,  wondrously  intricate  figures 
aglow  from  the  lights  within.  The  mountain  girl  had- 
never  seen  anything  so  beautiful. 

Though  the  motor-car  dashed  off,  the  three  men 
continued  to  wrangle,  Arnold  putting  in  a  word  here 
and  there;  and  then  he  said:  "Billy,  let  me  have 
twenty,"  and  one  of  the  group,  without  discontinuing 
his  argument,  or  even  looking  at  the  money,  made  the 
loan. 

Arnold  stood  balancing  the  coin,  yellow  in  the  light, 
on  his  thumb-nail;  then  glancing  about  at  the  girl  on 
his  arm,  he  laughed:  "Kid,  let's  go  eat."  Sylvia 
nodded,  still  in  a  daze. 

As  they  were  leaving,  the  bronzed  young  man  said 
coolly :  "Well,  fifty  thousand  then — there's  the  biggest 
purse  ever  hung  up — fifty  thousand  at  Goldfield  on 
Labor  Day." 

The  rotund  sporting  editor  was  scribbling  on  a  tele- 
gram form ;  the  third  man  nodded :  "Yes,  we'll  fight 
the  coon  on  a  toothpick  for  that !" 

And  suddenly  they  all  separated,  the  editor  rushing 
down  Market  Street,  the  man  from  Goldfield  entering 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  35 

the  motor-car,  which  had  made  a  pirouette  to  the  curb, 
the  woman  leaning  to  him  with  a  smile ;  and  the  prize- 
fight manager  walking  past  Arnold  and  Sylvia  into  the 
cafe. 

Arnold  spoke  quietly  from  the  vestibule:  "Billy, 
does  it  go  ?" 

The  stranger  nodded  and  passed  in.  Sylvia,  clinging 
to  her  lover's  arm,  could  look  through  the  glass  doors 
at  an  amazing  place.  Never  had  she  seen  so  many 
lights,  so  many  tables,  flowers  in  exquisite  vases,  so 
many  beautiful  women  all  in  a  fairyland  of  color,  of 
grace  and  of  music.  She  could  see  no  end  to  the  room, 
the  palms  beyond  arching  over  mystic,  translucent 
vistas,  an  illimitable  splendor.  Why  was  it  all? — for 
what  were  these  marvels  gathered,  this  cave  of  the 
Genii  stretching  under  the  gray  earth  ? 

Without,  the  rain  was  falling.  The  girl  shook  her 
lover's  arm.  His  eyes  were  vague  and  wide. 

"Jack,"  she  whispered,  "isn't  it  wonderful — all  won- 
derful?" 

"Yes — yes,"  he  answered  absently;  "fifty  thousand 
for  the  fight  in  the  desert — great  God,  what  men,  what 
plungers!  Fifty  thousand  from  a  little  mining  camp! 
That  was  Tex  McLane,  and  he's  getting  a  hundred 
thousand  dollars  a  month  out  of  a  little  shanty  not  so 
big  as  this  cigar  stand  up  in  Nevada — a  gambling- 
room." 

"A  gambler — and  I  rode  with  him !" 

He  did  not  see  her  horror;  he  was  dreaming.  He 
could  see  it  all,  the  great  arena  under  the  desert  sun, 
the  sweating  bodies  fighting  on  the  platform.  All  the 
west  would  be  there,  from  camp  and  trail,  from  the 


36  THE  DAY   OF   SOULS 

secret  places  and  the  arc-lighted  cities,  gathered,  mute, 
tense — a  huge  place  of  men  open  to  the  sky. 

And  suddenly  she  seemed  to  see  it,  to  awaken,  to 
know  him,  to  encompass  all  the  flare  of  this  life  into 
which  he  had  brought  her.  In  the  city  the  beast  lurked, 
the  serpent  glided,  the  savage  pursued ;  it  was  a  primal 
world  glutting  its  greed  and  passions  as  did  the  cave 
men  in  fen  and  jungle;  only  over  its  brutishness  was 
the  glamour  of  mirrored  lights,  gilded  panels,  black- 
garbed  servitors,  pleading  violins,  silks,  meats,  the  odor 
of  flowers  and  perfumes,  the  soft  skin  of  women,  with 
wine  fragrances  on  their  lips,  laughing  under  the  night 
— the  town's  hard  wantonness,  its  reckless  lubricity — 
no,  there  was  nothing  good  here ;  she  must  have  been 
mistaken,  even  in  the  man  she  loved. 

She  turned  to  go  to  the  street,  her  hand  relaxing 
from  Arnold's  arm. 

"Come,  we'll  have  supper,"  he  said,  starting  from  his 
abstraction.  But  she  drew  away  as  he  opened  the  great 
door  of  bronze  and  glass  where  the  uniformed  attend- 
ant beyond  had  stared  curiously  at  them. 

"No,  no — "  she  faltered,  and  then  looked  at  him,  her 
gray  eyes  big  with  resolution — "no,  I  can't  go  there — I 
must  go  somewhere,  but  not  there !" 

Arnold  bent  anxiously  to  her ;  the  slang  and  uncar- 
ing ease  of  the  street  had  left  him.  "Sylvia,  what's 
the  matter  ?  Are  you  sick — you  didn't  tell  me — " 

She  caught  at  the  pretext :  "Yes,  let's  go— I—" 

The  young  man's  arm  went  about  her ;  he  was  mur- 
muring his  solicitude,  asking  what  he  might  do — 
couldn't  he  get  something  at  a  drug-store — wouldn't 
she  be  better  if  she  ate  a  bit  ? 


THE  DAY   OF   SOULS  37 

"I  shouldn't  have  brought  you  down-town!"  he 
exclaimed.  "I  never  thought — among  these  people — 
this — "  He  stared  in  self-reproach  at  her.  "You 
know,  Kid,  I'm  pretty  callous ;  I  have  no  business  with 
a  girl  like  you.  Let's  go  where  you  can  sit  down." 

Again  he  bent  to  her  with  his  intent  care,  and  she 
smiled  now  to  relieve  his  trouble ;  yes,  that  was  his  old 
look,  his  gentle  way  of  doing  things,  of  caring  for  her 
as  one  would  a  child — no,  she  couldn't  doubt  him.  The 
city,  the  whole  round  world,  might  spin  drunken  with 
evil,  and  crash  down  in  shame,  but  not  he — he  was  her 
knight,  without  fear  or  reproach,  the  fellow  of  marvel- 
ous adventures;  she  had  his  picture  so,  a  lithe  soldier 
of  the  cavalry,  bearing  the  silken  guidon  of  his  troop. 

Suddenly  she  laughed,  brushing  her  hot  tears  away. 
"O,  come,"  she  cried,  "let's  go  home — home,  and  just 
be  glad — glad — glad — always!" 

And  in  her  eyes  he  saw  a  light  burn,  something  more 
than  he  had  ever  come  upon,  and  was  strangely  mute 
when  they  reached  his  lodgings  above  the  Family 
Liquor  Store. 

"I  wish  Miss  Cranberry  was  up,"  he  said.  "I  ought 
to  have  explained  about  you.  You'll  have  my  rooms 
to-night — the  best  in  the  house.  Now,  you  go  right  to 
bed.  To-morrow  we'll  be  married." 

They  were  in  the  warm-scented  room  and  he  was 
searching  for  a  match  in  the  dark  when  the  girl  put 
her  arms  about  his  neck. 

"John,"  she  whispered,  "are  you  always  going  to  love 
me?" 

"Always." 

They  were  silent  for  a  time;  then  he  muttered: 


38  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

"Sylvia,  you'll  overlook  a  lot,  won't  you  ?  If  I  was  in 
trouble — lots  of  trouble — and  men  blackened  my  name 
and  proved  me  a  liar  and  tried  to  prove  me  a  thief — 
a  thief,  would  you  love  me — always,  always  ?" 

"Always,"  she  answered ;  and  lighting  the  gas,  as  she 
clung  to  him,  he  saw,  in  the  mirror,  her  white  arms 
about  his  neck,  and  her  clear,  honest  eyes  on  him  in 
the  shade  of  the  little  blue  hat  from  Trinity. 

"O,  Kid!"  he  broke  out  suddenly,  "you're  fine  and 
true,  and  look  what  the  town's  made  of  me !  You  don't 
know — you  don't  know !" 

He  carried  her  to  a  chair  and  kneeling,  began  unlac- 
ing her  wet  shoe. 

"Kid,  I'm  not  decent — I'm  a  crook!  There's  not  a 
good  woman  in  San  Francisco  would  have  me  at  her 
home." 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  she  said  slowly. 

He  was  feeling  the  dampness  of  her  stockinged  foot. 

"Do  you  know,  when  I  wrote  you  to  come  to  the  city, 
Sylvia,  I  didn't  suppose  you'd  do  it.  I  didn't  think 
you'd  trust  me.  It  bewildered  me  when  I  got  the  tele- 
gram that  you  had  sailed." 

"Why,  that's  funny — it  was  just  as  natural!  Don't 
you  know  why  I  did  it?" 

"No.  You  can't  imagine  how  I've  felt  to-day.  I've 
been  humbled  and  gone  about  in  a  daze.  I  never  had 
such  a  feeling  before." 

"I  guess  it's  because  you  love  me."  She  slipped  into 
his  hand  the  little  silk  needle-case  from  her  bosom.  He 
held  it  for  a  moment  and  then  saw  the  edges  of  the 
bills  projecting;  opening  the  flap,  a  bank-note  for  one 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  39 

thousand  dollars  lay  before  him.     "It's   yours — and 
mine,"  she  added. 

"Sylvia,  you  sold  the  land !" 

"Part  of  it."  She  laughed  with  exquisite  pleasure 
and  sat  back  luxuriantly.  "My !  We're  rich !  It's  ten 
thousand  dollars.  The  lumber  company  paid  it  to  me 
just  before  I  sailed,  and  I  wouldn't  take  a  draft.  I 
wanted  it  in  money — real  money — for  you  to  look  at. 
I  wasn't  afraid!"  She  laughed  again  at  his  wonder- 
ment. "Gracious,  what  do  I  know  about  money?  I 
want  you  to  have  it,  John,  and  make  everything  nice 
for  us." 

"Suppose  we  live  in  Berkeley  or  Piedmont  or  some- 
where on  the  hills  and  have  a  place  with  roses  just  as 
you  said?  Sylvia,  you'll  never  like  the  town;  it's  fast 
and  fierce  and  grinds  the  soul  out  of  us,  and  no  one 
cares — not  a  -bit.  I'd  like  to  keep  you  just  as  you  are, 
sweetheart,  always !  Aren't  your  stockings  very  wet  ?" 
he  added  anxiously. 

She  was  untangling  the  veil  from  her  hat ;  witH  her 
head  turned,  she  gave  a  little  cry  of  alarm.  "There's 
some  one  in  the  bed !" 

He  looked  through  the  double  doorway  to  the  rear 
apartment ;  the  dim  light  showed  the  tumbled  coverlets. 

"It's  the  Polacchi  kids,"  said  he  ruefully.  "Granny's 
house  must  be  filled  to-night." 

She  went  with  him  to  stare  down  at  the  black  tousled 
heads  of  two  children.  "Why,  Jack,"  she  cried,  "in 
your  room!" 

"That's  all  right.  You  see  a  lot  of  people  sort  of 
hang  out  with  me  here ;  some  lad  gets  sick  or  drunk, 
and  I  come  home  and  find  him  roosting  with  me  until 


40  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

he  gets  over  it.  You  see,  I  never  can  turn  away  a  lad 
who's  been  square  with  me.  And  these  children — well, 
we  all  kind  of  look  after  'em,  Nel  Free  and  Granny 
and  Ferreri  and  I.  Their  dad  was  drowned  off  North 
Point  last  June.  He  was  a  fisherman.  The  boy, 
Angelo,  sells  flowers  down  on  Kearny ;  and  you  ought 
to  hear  him  with  a  violin !  Ferreri  and  I  are  going  to 
send  him  to  Paris,  when  he  gets  bigger,  to  study." 

"But  in  your  bed — and  you  never  knew  it,"  she 
laughed,  watching  the  rosy  cheek  of  Angelo  Polacchi. 
"You're  funny  people  here !" 

"Granny  understands.  The  lodgings  are  filled  to- 
night. I'd  hang  around  down-town  most  of  the  night, 
anyway.  But  you — Sylvia,  you'll  have  to  sleep  on  the 
couch.  It's  big  and  warm,  and  I've  extra  covers." 

She  watched  him  moving  softly  about  the  room, 
removing  the  scrape  from  the  couch,  finding  sheets  and 
blankets,  making  her  bed,  through  it  all  a  whispered 
comment  of  humor.  She  placed  the  violets  he  had 
given  her  in  a  bowl  of  Japanese  lacquer  on  the  table. 
Under  the  gas  she  unhooked  the  lace  of  her  collar  and 
faced  him  with  a  sober  little  laugh. 

"Good  night,  Sylvia."  Then  he  hesitated  in  some 
confusion  and  from  his  pocket  took  the  case  of  money. 

"You'd  better  keep  this— you— I—" 

"Why,  it's  yours.  You'll  have  to  care  for  it  now. 
We  can  put  it  in  a  bank  to-morrow." 

"Yes,"  he  answered  absently,  his  eyes  on  the 
white,  firm  flesh  of  her  shoulder  through  the  opened 
waist,  where  a  glow  was  mounting  rosily  to  melt  into 
the  pink  of  her  cheek,  as  she  worked  at  a  stubborn  pin. 
Then  he  held  out  his  hand  and  did  not  offer  to  kiss  her, 


THE   DAY   OF    SOULS  41 

though  the  sweetness  of  her  breath,  inimitably  different 
from  that  of  town  women,  was  on  him  as  she  smiled : 
"Good  night." 

She  closed  the  door  behind  him,  discovering,  when 
he  had  gone  down  the  steps  past  the  Family  Liquor 
Store,  that  the  rusty  lock  was  useless. 

The  young  man  went  up  the  hill  and  over  Powell 
Street,  where  all  the  midnight  radiance  of  the  city,  four 
hundred  feet  below  him,  spread,  like  a  field  of  fireflies 
caught  in  a  net,  east  and  south  and  west  to  the  bay  and 
to  the  mountains.  Where  Powell  intersected  Market, 
the  wet  asphalt  was  a  reflector,  in  and  out  of  which  the 
cable-cars  crawled,  like  busy  insects  about  a  lamp. 
Arnold  stopped  on  the  Nob  Hill  slope  and  looked  down 
in  the  pit  studded  with  cold  brilliance.  After  a  while  he 
raised  his  hand  and  shook  it  over  the  city.  "Damn 
you,"  he  cried,  "you'll  never  make  of  her  what  you 
have  of  us!" 

He  turned  into  the  Maplewood  Saloon  on  Grant 
Avenue  half  an  hour  later.  It  was  a  place  of  costly 
woods  and  massive  mirrors,  yet  treated  with  mission 
simplicity,  and  of  flawless  harmony  of  color  and  design, 
lighted  by  lights  in  recesses,  save  for  one  bronze  nude 
figure  on  the  back  bar  holding  forth  a  grape  cluster  that 
showed  the  wondrous  tints  of  the  flaming  Tokay  in  the 
ripening.  It  was  known,  though  not  admitted,  that  Po- 
lice Commissioner  Stillman  was  interested  in  the  Maple- 
wood,  and  that  he  had  paid  twenty  thousand  dollars  to 
a  decorator  brought  from  Milan  to  think  over  the 
mural  scheme  of  his  saloon. 

Arnold  met  Louis  Ferreri  at  the  bar,  idly  listening 
to  a  discourse  from  a  sharp-faced  youth  who  wore  a 


42  THE  DAY   OF   SOULS 

leather  automobile  cap  and  a  sweater  of  amazingly 
broad  pink,  green  and  yellow  stripes.  The  high  throat 
of  this  sweater  was  gathered  by  a  ribbon  of  baby  blue 
and  in  the  knot  was  an  immense  yellow  diamond. 
Mannie  Murasky  had  purchased  this  at  the  Portland 
Loan  Office  the  day  after  the  Burns  Handicap  two 
years  ago.  It  was  a  real  and  startling  stone.  It 
gathered  up  all  the  iridescence  of  his  sweater  and 
smashed  it  at  you  so  menacingly  that  Mannie  was 
known  as  the  "Headlight  Kid."  Young  Murasky  was 
of  many  talents ;  a  pool-room  clerk  at  times,  an  "out- 
side man"  for  an  Emeryville  book-maker,  a  cigar-store 
clerk,  a  second  for  amateur  prize-fighters,  for  ever  nois- 
ily vociferating  about  the  clubs  the  claims  of  some  com- 
ing light-weight  he  had  discovered  at  the  Union  Iron 
Works,  or  Butchertown  or  North  Beach.  Mannie 
would  tout  his  "comer"  indefatigably,  get  some  pro- 
moter to  give  him  a  try-out  at  the  fortnightly  bouts, 
and  then,  when  his  wonder  was  beaten  to  the  mat,  the 
Headlight  Kid  would  disappear  from  Market  Street 
to  turn  up  later  with  another  slim-shanked  aspirant  of 
the  ring-side. 

To-night  Mannie  had  talked  himself  out  over  the 
fight.  The  slot-machine  man  was  weary  with  the 
buffeting  which  the  nimble-witted  little  Hebrew  had 
given  him  on  fistic  matters,  and  he  hailed  Arnold  with 
relief.  Mannie,  too,  subsided ;  he  held  John  Hamilton 
Arnold  in  a  subconscious  awe,  for  Ham  was  "close 
up"  to  Harry  Stillman,  and  doubtless  the  boss,  too; 
and  moreover  Mannie  had  once  seen  him  talking  with 
some  elegant  women  in  a  carriage  in  front  of  a  Post 
Street  shop.  Ham  had  his  hat  off,  but  he  chatted  with 


THE   DAY   OF    SOULS  43 

nonchalant  humor,  though  Mannie,  pouncing  like  a 
ferret  into  a  cigar  stand  to  ask  of  them,  learned  that 
one  of  these  women  was  the  daughter  of  Barron 
Chatom,  attorney  for  the  railroad,  a  man  to  whom 
Police  Commissioner  Stillman,  the  mayor,  the  boss  and 
even  the  governor  deferred,  for  Chatom  and  the  rail- 
road could  make  or  break  any  of  them.  And  Mannie 
saw  Edith  Chatom  extend  her  hand  with  a  parting 
smile  to  Arnold  and  drive  off  behind  the  coachman 
with  the  high  hat  and  yellow  pants.  That  settled 
the  Headlight  Kid :  "Always  stay  in  wit'  t'ese  mutts 
t'at  are  strong  wit'  t'  organization — a  guy  might  want 
somepin  sometime  from  somebody." 

"Hello,  J.  Ham,"  he  began,  his  rat-eyes  on 
Arnold's  fashionable  clothes — he  would  have  a  coat 
cut  like  that  with  no  top  pocket.  "Wasn't  t'at  fight  a 
pippin  ?" 

"Didn't  see  it,"  rejoined  the  young  man.  He  went 
directly  to  the  bar.  "Fergy,"  said  he  to  the  drink- 
mixer-in-chief,  "I  want  to  leave  some  money  with  you." 
He  was  counting  out  bills,  five  of  a  thousand  each, 
eight  of  five  hundred  and  some  smaller  notes. 

"How's  that?"  murmured  the  pallid  barkeeper. 
"Lord  Rex  was  the  only  long  shot  to-day  and  he  didn't 
carry  a  thimbleful  of  money.  Fight  ?" 

"Picked  up  five  hundred,  but  haven't  cashed  in  yet. 
This — "  Arnold  watched  the  saloon  man's  languid 
count —  "merely  velvet." 

Ferreri's  eyes  widened,  and  Mannie  hopped  on  the 
bar  rail  to  gasp :  "Ten  thousand  ?  Have  I  woke  up  in 
th'  mint?  J.  Ham,  whose  roll  is  it?" 

"Mine."     Arnold's  voice  did  not  invite,  and  they 


44  THE  DAY   OF   SOULS 

were  silent.  Louis  Ferreri  shot  a  warning  at  the  bar- 
tender. This  was  a  foolish  "flash"  for  Ham  to  make — 
a  man  who  was  mixed  in  the  grand  jury  scandals  and 
all.  Louis  lit  a  fresh  cigar  and  looked  with  critical 
pleasure  at  his  reflection  in  the  back  bar  glass.  He  was 
a  benign  animal,  fond  of  eating,  the  latest  crush  in  a 
hat,  absorbed  with  childish  vanity  in  his  diamonds.  On 
his  watch-fob,  his  cuffs,  rings  and  scarf-pin  he  affected 
a  tiger's  head  design  of  Roman  gold  clasping  a  white 
stone  in  its  teeth  and  with  garnets  for  eyes.  Besides 
these  he  had  a  forget-me-not  of  exquisite  enamel  with 
a  diamond  heart,  and  three  others  of  various  settings, 
but  all  of  purest  values  and  extreme  costliness.  Like 
most  stupid  men  he  had  one  single  fad  which  he 
imagined  lifted  his  conscious  dullness,  at  this  point  at 
least,  to  command  attention  from  the  more  alert.  And 
these  diamonds  Louis  always  carried  in  a  velvet  case 
in  his  waistcoat  pocket.  It  occupied  his  indolent  mind 
to  change  the  pin  in  his  cravat  for  one  of  the  others 
at  intervals  of  conversation,  rubbing  the  scintillant 
jewels  and  watching  them  in  the  lights  of  the  cafes 
and  theaters.  Within  a  single  evening  he  might  be 
bedecked  with  each  pin  in  turn;  but  on  prize-fight 
nights  the  slot-machine  man  wore  only  the  tiger's  head 
pin  with  the  safety  catch  and  deposited  the  others  with 
Fergy  in  the  cash-register  drawer  at  the  Maplewood. 

Caressing  the  forget-me-not  over  the  bar,  Ferreri 
idly  drawled  his  curiosity  concerning  Arnold's  money. 
"You  certainly  got  next  to  something  good.  And,  say, 
anybody  been  talking  to  you  about  Weldy?  Some- 
body's going  to  get  indicted  by  the  grand  jury  for  that 
registration  business,  sure,  Ham!" 


THE   DAY   OF    SOULS  43 

Arnold  shrugged  indifferently.  "I'm  through  with 
the  funny  work.  I  told  you  I  was  going  to  be  mar- 
ried, Louis." 

"O,  I  see — that's  your  bank-roll  ?  How  much  is  she 
worth?" 

"I  don't  know.  She's  from  Trinity — met  her  this 
summer." 

"You're  always  turning  big  tricks.  Money? — and 
she  looked  good  to  me." 

"She's  the  best  ever.  I'm  afraid  I'll  get  fond  of  her 
myself.  And  I'm  cutting  out  the  old  graft  now.  It's 
as  easy  to  be  a  fifty  thousand  dollar  man  as  a  one  thous- 
and dollar  man,  and  I'm  going  to  break  with  all  this." 

"Yes?"  Ferreri's  incredulous  curiosity  followed 
Ham's  eye  about  the  bar-room.  "Going  after  some- 
thing big?  Your  old  man  up  in  the  pen — haven't 
stopped  working  for  that  pardon,  have  you?" 

"I'm  going  at  it  differently.  I've  been  doing  dirty 
politics  for  Stillman  and  the  city  hall  three  years  and 
what  have  I  got  out  of  it  ?  Now  if  this  girl's  got  the 
money — and  she  owns  a  strip  of  redwoods  you  could 
drop  the  town  in — I'll  shove  some  of  it  right.  Under- 
stand ?  That  pardon  will  go  to  the  governor  with  the 
right  people  behind  it." 

"You're  not  deuce  high  with  the  governor.  That  big 
land  company  down  in  Stanislaus  is  too  close  to  the 
railroad.  Chatom's  the  only  man  could  handle  the 
governor  for  you,  and  he — well,  what  pull  have  me  and 
you  got  doing  a  little  politics  over  the  hill  against 
Chatom  and  the  railroad  and  the  land  company  that 
wants  your  old  man  kept  in  the  pen?  Say,  Ham,  we 
ain't  a  flash  in  the  pan  with  the  governor." 


#5  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

"I'll  turn  the  trick.    With  money  I  can  meet  some 
different  people/' 

Ferreri's  wits  did  not  follow  at  first;  there  was,  at 
times,  a  grim  satire  in  Arnold;  he  would  say  things 
that  showed,  after  all,  that  you  had  never  been  close 
to  him,  that  he  was  surveying  you  and  himself  from 
some  view-point  inimitably  his  own.  Louis  recalled, 
as  all  the  Street  did,  that  Arnold's  family  name  had 
stood  for  much  ten  years  ago — much  that  Louis  knew 
of  only  as  his  indifferent  eye  wandered  over  the  social 
pages  of  the  Sunday  papers.  It  was  broken  now, 
almost  forgotten ;  from  the  only  son,  the  last  scion  of 
the  house,  the  years  had  effaced  resentment,  shame  or 
hope  of  reparation.  He  had  accepted,  he  told  himself, 
with  a  clear,  impersonal  survey  and  he  had  promised 
himself,  whatever  the  conditions,  to  be  the  master  of 
his  life.  And  so  he  had  come  down  the  way,  still 
seeing  his  fall  clearly,  in  a  sort  of  philosophic  pride  at 
the  mordant  keenness  with  which  he  knew  himself  and 
was  unmoved,  without  law,  without  conscience,  without 
soul.  It  was  as  he  wished. 

"Different  people?"  Ferreri  drawled.  "They're  all 
crooks." 

Arnold  laughed  easily.  "Naturally.  But  I'm  through 
with  the  little  ones.  With  money  I  can  reach  the  big 
ones.  I  mean  socially.  Money'll  make  them  forget  a 
good  deal — and  now  I'll  have  some  money."  He 
tinkled  his  glass  along  the  polished  wood.  "Dad's  pretty 
old  for  San  Quentm.  He  won't  be  the  same  game  old 
fighter  that  tried  to  swing  the  whole  San  Joaquin  into 
his  irrigation  scheme.  And  because  he  stood  wrong 
higher  up  the  railroad  and  the  land  ring  smashed  him. 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  47 

He  wouldn't  take  orders,  and  they  got  his  backers 
away,  and  then  he  signed  his  name  to  some  paper  that 
wasn't  good,  and  they  got  him — the  other  crooks.  Ah, 
well,  now  I'll  swing  that  pardon.  Every  day  I  rub 
shoulders  with  more  crooks  free  than  dad  would  meet 
in  a  thousand  years  in  prison,  but  that's  all  right — I'm 
not  kicking  about  the  game — I'm  the  son  of  a  con,  and 
that's  all  right,  too.  Only  now,  with  money — " 

"You  can't  reach  the  governor.  There's  bigger  men 
than  you  can  go  to  Chatom  and  Chatom  gives  the  word 
and  the  governor  programs  like  a  little  man.  If  your 
old  man  was  clean  as  Angel  Gabriel  what  chance  have 
you  got?" 

Arnold  laughed:  "Money,"  he  repeated;  "watch 
me." 

"And  a  girl  on  your  hands." 

"That's  all  right.    I'll  treat  her  fine." 

"Ham,  you  don't  love  her."  Louis'  voice  protested 
curiously.  "You — why,  no  woman  in  this  town  ever 
held  you  for  a  little  minute." 

Ham's  mimic  laugh  rang  out.  "Well,  this  kid — she 
thinks  I'm  the  only  thing  that  ever  happened!  I  had 
her  the  first  time  I  met  her — she  hadn't  a  chance." 
And  then  his  cool  voice  deepened :  "And  I  tell  you  I'll 
be  fine  to  her.  I'll  cut  you  fellows  off  the  map.  What's 
the  use  of  this?  What's  all  this  midnight  racket? 
What's  this  town  ever  done  for  me?" 

"It'll  do  something  for  you  now"  Ferreri  Had  a 
sleepy  resentment.  "Heard  the  latest?  Grand  jury's 
gone  into  the  registration  for  last  August  primaries. 
That'll  get  pretty  close  to  you — you  and  Fred  Weldy 
were  in  the  registrar's  office,  and  you  packed  some 


48  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

awful  raw  ones.  But  you  put  it  through,  and  Stillman 
got  Weldy  into  the  legislature  to  help  protect  the  races. 
O,  sure,  the  whole  town  knows  that,  all  right!  But 
you — you  took  some  fierce  chances — you  do  things  so 
openly." 

John  Arnold  gyrated  his  highball  indifferently: 
"Well,  if  the  race-track  can't  protect  its  men  from  the 
grand  jury,  Stillman  better  quit  running  this  town.  To 
hell  with  the  grand  jury!  We've  got  five  of  the 
superior  judges,  haven't  we  ?  We  can  hold  the  supreme 
court  on  a  pinch,  can't  we,  long  as  the  railroad's  behind 
the  track?"  But  his  mood  changed:  "Well,  I'm 
through.  To-night  the  queer  work  and  I  part  com- 
pany. I  quit." 

The  Italian-American  laughed  again.  "Girl,"  he 
murmured;  "girl!  I  see  you  quittin'.  They  won't  let 
you  quit — they've  got  you.  The  big  fight's  only  begin- 
ning and  they  need  you.  And  you  don't  love  her.  I 
got  a  picture  of  you  a  family  man.  Lord,  you!" 

The  other  was  staring  at  his  gaunt  face  in  the 
mirrors — the  thin  curls  about  his  white,  high  forehead, 
the  eyes  deep-set,  unreadable,  dark,  with  their  trick  of 
laughing  even  in  his  reserve.  "Look  here,"  he  muttered, 
"suppose  I  did?  Suppose  there  was  a  way  for  me? 
I'm  always  thinking  of  the  hills,  somehow,  and  to-night 
she  said  we'd  have  a  place  somewhere  there — "  he 
pointed  through  the  garish  lights  off  to  the  north — 
"with  roses  all  around  the  door." 

They  were  silent  along  Fergy's  polished  bar.  Ham 
was  staring  above  the  wicker  doors.  Fergy  held  a 
pink  globe  of  a  goblet  up  to  flick  a  last  bit  of  lint  away, 
and  it  hung,  its  iridescence  flung  back  from  every  angle 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  49 

of  the  room:  "That's  me,"  Arnold  muttered,  "some 
day." 

Ferreri  turned.  "Let's  blow  down  the  line.  They're 
burning  champagne  in  the  red  fire  to-night,  and  it's 
only  half-past  two.  The  whole  town  cleaned  up  on  the 
Native  Son.  But  that  little  girl — "  he  signaled  to  the 
drink-mixers  behind  the  Maplewood  bar.  "The  house 
is  in — every  one." 

"All  right—"  Arnold  had  briefly  hesitated— "Scotch 
in  a  high  glass." 

Ferreri  lifted  his  glass  solemnly  to  his  friend  and 
the  men  in  the  white  aprons:  "To  the  little  girl — 
Ham's  little  girl!" 

Arnold  went  to  the  lunch  where  a  clean  little  Jap- 
anese lifted  the  great  silver  dish  covers.  Frank 
Arasaka — California  Japanese  are  invariably  "Franks," 
or  "Joes,"  or  "Charlies," — smiled  with  serene  friend- 
liness on  the  young  man;  a  brown- faced,  spectacled 
student  of  language  and  medicine,  he  remembered  the 
days  when  Arnold  had  helped  him  through  the  English 
primer.  In  the  Imperial  Hotel  on  Stockton  Street, 
"over  the  hill,"  they  had  argued  economics  over  the 
raw  fish  and  hot  sake  many  a  night,  for  Arnold  had 
been  Arasaka's  patron  when  he  was  a  stranger  in  a 
strange  land.  So  the  little  Japanese  said,  with  a  hesi- 
tant sadness  now :  "I  mek  you  good-by,  Mist'  Arnold. 
I  go  back  to  Nippon  nex'." 

"Home?" 

"Yes — mebbe.  You  been  mos'  good  to  mek  me 
English  in  the  study.  Now,  I  go  Nippon.  My  family 
mos'  long,  honorable.  Nex'  month  come  great  Samurai 
festival — what  you  say? — solemn?  I  clean  myself — I 


go  THE  DAY  OF   SOULS 

mek  great  thoughts.  All  night  by  shoji  I  watch 
swords  of  mos'  honorable  ancestors.  I  mus'  remember 
if  I  ben  corage — honorable  such  as  them." 

"And  they  come  back  to  judge  you — the  old  fighting 
men?" 

"Mos'  exact.  All  souls  awaken!  OF  fighting  men 
ask  if  I  ben  corage  and  honor.  You  know  ?  No  man 
come  dare  stand  dishonorable  before  them  ol'  armor 
and  them  ol'  swords  w'en  them  ol'  honorable  ancestors 
ask.  I  mus'  mek  myself  clean  firs' — then  I  can  watch 
and  answer.  O,  you  ben  soldier — mos'  honorable — you 
know !" 

Arnold  watched  him  curiously :  "You  must  come 
clean  that  night.  I  see — and  what  do  you  call  the  thing 
—the  festival?" 

"Very  hard  to  English.  In  Japan — The  Day  of 
Souls." 

The  hard-faced  American  looked  again  at  the  little 
brown,  spectacled  man,  wondering  idly  why  this 
unmoral,  scientifically  materialistic  heathen,  spending 
his  days  in  books,  his  nights  in  the  whirling  lusts  of  the 
town,  smiling  and  serene,  should  go  back  across  five 
thousand  miles  of  water  to  sit  one  night  before  the 
armor  of  the  Samurai  awaiting  their  judgment.  Then 
slowly  with  a  smile,  his  hand  went  to  the  Japanese: 
"Play  square  then  with  those  ancestors.  It's  a  fine 
idea.  Sayonara!" 

He  gambled  five  dollars  into  one  of  Ferreri's  slot 
machines  without  a  winning,  and  gossiped  half  an  hour 
with  Fergy,  the  others  having  gone.  Then  Arnold 
caught  the  owl  car  up  Kearny  Street  and  got  off  at 
Portsmouth  Square.  He  was  a  fellow  given  much  to 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  51 

dreams  when  alone;  when  with  his  friends  he  had  a 
way  of  listening  abstractedly,  but  with  an  encouraging 
humor  of  comment.  The  town  called  him  "square;" 
the  Street,  nicknamed  him,  as  men  do  one  subcon- 
sciously beloved. 

But  Ham  wondered  at  times  why  he  was  such  a  dis- 
aster to  himself  and  those  who  cared  for  him ;  though 
when  he  went  about,  the  homeless  dogs  .always  followed 
him  and  he  saw  the  wistfulness  in  their  eyes  and  knew 
that  life  to  them  was  one  long  yearning  for  the  possible 
adventure ;  and  in  the  eyes  of  women  he  saw  that  which 
the  finality  of  the  morgue  records  does  not  show,  for 
it  was  their  secret  True  Romance;  and  in  the  eyes  of 
white-haired  old  mothers,  and  the  babes  who  always 
watched  him  in  a  crowd,  he  saw  a  wonder  which  he 
could  not  understand,  and  a  peace  that  troubled  him. 

As  he  climbed  the  hill  into  Chinatown,  the  late  police 
detail  from  the  hall  of  justice  greeted  him  with  friendly 
pleasantries.  When  he  reached  the  door  of  his  lodg- 
ings it  suddenly  occurred  to  him  that  there  was  no 
available  bed  in  Miss  Cranberry's  house,  and  he  paused, 
wondering  whereabout  he  might  find  a  room.  Then  he 
saw  a  paper  twisted  about  the  door-knob,  his  marriage 
license  crumpled,  wine-stained,  and  by  the  corner  light 
he  read  the  scrawls  across  its  back: 

"If  you  and  I  together,  Sweetheart," 
"Sweetheart,  if  you  and  I  could  roam ;" 
"If  together  we  did  roam,  Sweetheart" 

"Sammy ;  O,  Sammy !"  sighed  J.  Ham  Arnold. 
Under  the  gray,  ancient  gable  he  looked  down  the 


52  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

hill  to  the  squat  roofs  of  Chinatown  and  the  Barbary 
Coast  reaching  to  the  bay.  The  day  was  coming 
beyond  Monte  Diablo  to  the  east.  It  was  still  and  high 
about  him,  a  clean  land  above  the  wolfish  town,  the 
place  of  savages.  A  vision  came  to  his  somber  eyes: 
yes,  he  was  above  it  all — he  had  gone  back  the  ways 
of  the  years  of  his  life ;  he  had  come  to  a  hilltop  in  the 
north,  there  to  stand  in  an  inviolate  peace,  a  gladness 
he  had  put  by,  forgotten.  And  below  him  lurked  the 
city  where  the  beasts  were,  beaten,  conquered :  they  lay 
gross,  filled,  the  weaker  dying  unheeded,  but  afar,  high 
on  his  hilltop  he  was  above  this — on  his  lips  a  victor's 
song. 

After  a  while  he  moved  from  the  wet  balcony  rail 
and  sat  on  the  rough  mat  by  the  door  so  that  he  could 
see  the  stars  fade.  Quietly  watching  them  his  knees 
relaxed  presently,  his  shoulders  sank  against  the  door- 
frame, the  fumes  of  many  liquors  stole  to  his  brain, 
and  he  slept. 

The  light  widened  over  the  eastern  mountains. 
Diablo  shot  a  sparkle  from  its  snowy  slope.  The  bay 
shores  grew  plain,  the  town  below  took  form.  Within 
half  an  hour,  because  she  was  from  the  country-up-in- 
back  and  used  to  early  rising,  the  girl  on  the  couch 
stirred.  Presently  she  looked  drowsily  about  and 
started  at  the  strange  room.  Then  she  smiled  with 
sleepy  luxuriance.  From  the  window  the  chill  air 
streamed  in;  she  wondered  if  the  children  in  the  big 
bed  were  well  covered  ? 

Sylvia  slipped  from  the  couch  and  glanced  at  them. 
Then  she  came  to  the  window  and  put  her  head 
through,  glancing  at  the  patches  of  sea  and  mountain 
under  the  coloring  sky. 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  53 

Looking  along  the  balcony  she  saw  a  man  huddled  at 
the  door  and,  in  some  alarm,  went  cautiously  to  open 
it.  She  knew  he  must  be  asleep ;  now,  she  saw  it  was 
her  lover. 

She  threw  the  door  wide  and  in  her  night-robe,  knelt 
on  the  step  above  him.  He  breathed  gently,  his  dark 
face,  without  its  inscrutable  trouble,  now  at  peace.  The 
girl  studied  him  quietly ;  then  she  noticed  the  morning 
damp  on  his  hair  and  the  collar  upturned  about  his 
chin.  She  went  back  and  dragged  the  heaviest  blanket 
from  her  bed  and  cautiously  placed  it  over  him,  tucking 
it  under  his  form  and  about  his  throat.  She  watched 
him  longer  and  then,  with  a  smile,  reached  to  the 
dresser  and  took  the  mass  of  violets  from  the  bowl, 
shaking  the  water  from  the  stems.  Laughing,  she 
scattered  them  over  him,  over  the  blanket,  and  by  twos 
and  threes  and  in  little  garlands,  they  fell  in  his  face 
and  hair  and  on  the  mold  of  the  boards. 

She  laughed  again  out  of  her  happiness.  It  was 
grand.  It  was  just  as  she  had  dreamed,  as  she  wished 
to  believe;  he  was  a  knight  wandering  through  the 
world  doing  noble  deeds,  fighting  brave  battles ;  he  had 
come  to  lie  before  her  threshold,  guarding  it  through 
the  dark  hours;  and  now,  when  the  light  had  come, 
she  could  reward  him  with  the  flowers  he  had  given 
her  and  which  she  had  worn  over  her  heart.  She 
looked  down  at  the  brute  town ;  it  was  stilled — for  her, 
in  the  night,  he  had  conquered.  It  was  without  life; 
only,  over  a  gaunt  hill  to  the  north,  lay  a  drift  of  fog, 
like  a  rag  of  lace  on  a  beggar's  breast. 

She  looked  down  again  at  the  violets  scattered  over 
him. 


CHAPTER  III 

A  little,  old  woman  with  a  face  as  wrinkled  as 
parchment  under  her  gray  hair,  which  was  parted 
primly  and  yet  brought  down  in  a  wavy  loop  over  each 
ear,  after  the  fashion  of  a  school-girl,  thrust  her  head 
through  the  door  leading  from  the  inner  hall  to 
Arnold's  apartments. 

"May  I  come  in,  Mr.  Hammy?"  she  said,  in  the 
brisk  querulousness  of  one  habitually  hurried. 

"Good  morning,  Granny,"  said  he,  combing  his  hair 
at  the  dresser.  "Come  in." 

Miss  Cranberry  entered.  "Are  the  dears  asleep?" 
she  asked.  "I  didn't  want  them  in  the  small  room  next 
the  plumber — he  was  drunk  again."  She  bent  above 
the  children,  still  in  the  rear  chamber.  "The  poor 
dears — the  poor  dears — but  Angelo  must  be  awak- 
ened." 

Miss  Cranberry  caught  the  flutter  of  a  gown  on 
the  balcony  outside  in  the  radiant  morning.  Her  small 
brown  eyes  peered  cautiously  about. 

"Bless  my  soul !" 

Arnold  turned,  waving  his  hair  brushes.  "Miss 
Cranberry,  this  is  my  wife — she's  to  be  my  wife — 
Sylvia." 

"Bless  my  soul;  bless  my  soul!"  The  little,  old 
woman  stood  among  the  scattered  violets  on  the 
breezy  balcony,  blinking  at  the  light. 

54 


THE   DAY   OF    SOULS  55 

Sylvia  gave  her  hand  to  Miss  Cranberry's  gray 
talon.  "Married  ?  Well,  well,  my  dears  1" 

"Pretty  near !"  laughed  Sylvia. 

Miss  Cranberry  trembled  with  delight ;  it  had  come, 
then — the  romance  with  which  always  she  had  known 
she  would  be  concerned.  She  was  a  little,  shrill- 
voiced  spinster,  living  in  the  memories  of  the  Fifties, 
when  she  had  known  the  makers  of  California — the 
Bonanza  kings  and  the  builders  of  the  Southern  Pacific 
— Sharon,  Fair,  Huntington,  Flood,  O'Brien,  Mackey, 
Stanford,  Ralston — the  great  names  of  the  Comstock ; 
in  some  of  these  families  she  had  been  a  governess  on 
the  intimate  relations  of  a  friend ;  she  knew  innumer- 
able stories  of  the  early  money  kings  in  the  mad  San 
Francisco  days ;  she  had  seen  Casey  and  Cora  hanged 
by  the  Vigilantes;  she  had  seen  the  opening  of  the 
Palace,  and  knew  of  the  day  its  genius  jumped  from 
Meiggs'  wharf  into  the  bay ;  she  knew  by  the  sureness 
of  household  gossip  all  the  tales  of  incredible  extrava- 
gance, of  barbaric  imagination,  that  had  gathered 
about  the  Argonautic  millionaires'  families.  And  she 
had  seen  the  curious  fatality  overtake  them ;  their  seed 
perished  for  the  most  part;  their  great,  monstrously 
ugly  palaces  on  Nob  Hill,  closed,  deserted,  mournful 
relics  of  the  Wonder  Age  of  the  Golden  State,  of  the 
most  fantastic  era  in  the  history  of  the  republic.  The 
great  names,  the  turbulent  families,  were  now  tradi- 
tions. The  little,  old  woman  had  seen  their  glory  rise 
and  fall,  and  she  lived  on  alone,  in  beggary,  unknown, 
forgotten — to  chant,  like  the  chorus  of  an  ^schylean 
tragedy,  on  the  inevitable  hand  of  fate  laid  against 
the  mighty  and  the  proud. 


56  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

For  forty  years  she  had  retreated  before  the  savage 
town;  she  had  fought  it  back  from  noisome  lodgings 
with  her  failing  strength,  while  it  grew  to  be  a  mon- 
ster, harsh,  sordid,  unrequiting — the  days  of  gold,  of 
youth,  of  prodigal  friendship,  were  done.  One  won- 
dered how  the  life  spark  stayed  in  such  a  withered, 
weary  little  body,  performing  prodigies  of  labor, 
sweeping  her  frayed  carpets,  scrubbing  the  halls  with 
swashes  of  dirty  water,  cleaning  the  windows,  making 
the  beds.  On  Sunday  mornings  she  was  an  elegant 
person  in  a  black  cap  and  silk  dress,  queerly  cut,  going 
to  Trinity  with  her  Book  of  Prayers ;  on  week  days 
she  was  the  excitable  little  shrew,  with  a  heart  pro- 
digiously kind,  toiling  for  her  lodgers,  who  were  im- 
pecunious clerks,  itinerant  mechanics,  peddlers,  broken 
drift  of  the  streets,  who  paid  when  they  could  and  were 
trusted  when  they  could  not.  The  drunken,  the  im- 
provident, the  foolish,  the  sick,  the  lame,  the  despond- 
ent, all  were  hers;  she  nursed  and  protected  and 
defended  them,  denouncing  the  police  if  they  touched 
one  of  her  worthless  proteges;  clothing  the  naked, 
forgiving  the  unchaste  and  drunken,  toiling  inordi- 
nately meanwhile  to  pay  the  landlord,  the  grocer,  and 
the  interest  on  her  mortgaged  furniture — this  was  her 
life's  tribute  to  the  city,  and  in  requital  it  would  some 
day  at  the  Morgue  draw  a  sheet  over  her  bones. 

The  old  woman  was  all  aglow  as  John  Arnold  told 
of  his  love  affair,  all  little  cries  and  smiles  and  won- 
ders ;  she  kissed  the  girl's  rosy  cheek ;  she  was  hungry 
for  something  apart  from  the  stink  of  the  kitchen  and 
the  murky  halls;  she  loved  clothes,  faces,  manners  of 
distinction,  and  the  lightness  of  youth.  She  must 


THE   DAY   OF    SOULS  57 

know  all  about  it;  they  must  stay  to  breakfast;  yes, 
she  would  run  to  the  corner  for  hot  rolls,  and  to  Unc' 
Pop's  for  bacon.  And  while  she  was  hustling  about 
with  astonishing  agility,  a  step  sounded  on  the  stairs 
leading  from  the  attic,  then  a  tap,  tap,  tapping — a 
cane  on  the  wainscot. 

Miss  Cranberry  flashed  a  startled  look  on  Arnold. 

"You  know,  don't  you? — it  was  in  the  morning 
papers — a  cablegram  from  Manila?  Hush,  the  Cap- 
tain's coming." 

"The  papers  ?    Manila  ?    I  have  seen  nothing." 

"Larry's  dead.  He  struck  an  officer  and  was  dis- 
honorably discharged;  and  then  he  was  killed  in  a 
quarrel  at  some  little  place  with  a  big  name  in  Samar. 
The  paper  just  mentioned  it." 

"Larry!"  Arnold  stepped  back,  his  lips  tightened. 
At  the  bottom  of  the  attic  stairs  an  old  man  felt  his 
way  along.  Sylvia's  eyes  shone  with  sympathy;  she 
whispered:  "Larry?  I  heard  you  speak  of  him — the 
soldier—" 

"My  bunky,"  muttered  her  lover.  "I  left  him  at 
Cavite.  Here's  his  father." 

The  Captain  turned  his  clouded  eyes  on  them. 
His  face,  with  the  noble  sweep  of  hair,  the  mustaches, 
the  stained,  gray  imperial,  had  the  grand  theatricism 
of  another  era  of  strong  men ;  you  would  have  marked 
him  in  a  street  among  a  thousand.  His  head  inclined ; 
he  had  heard  his  name — his  right  finger-tips  went  to 
his  bushy  brow. 

The  younger  man  saluted  as  gravely  in  this  bit  of 
play  to  which  neither  of  them  ever  directly  adverted. 

"Sir,   I  heard  to-day  that  a  troop-ship  had  come 


58  THE   DAY   OF    SOULS 

from  the  islands.  Any  news  ?  Is  the  Third  Squadron 
still  in  Samar?  You  mentioned  my  son's  name  as  I 
entered." 

Miss  Cranberry  sent  a  frightened  warning  to  Arnold. 
The  young  man  looked  calmly  into  the  veteran's  half- 
blinded  eyes. 

"There  was  some  fighting,  sir,  in  Samar,  and  Larry 
— well,  the  Squadron  was  cut  up  a  bit,  I  understand." 

"Eh  ? — and  my  son  ? — "  The  old  man's  eager  voice 
trembled. 

The  group  was  motionless.  Arnold's  cool  tones 
broke  the  constraint. 

"I  was  going  to  tell  you,  'Captain.  Larry  can't 
return  with  the  regiment.  He'll  be  delayed  a  bit — he 
was — well,  a  bullet  through  the  arm." 

"Wounded?" 

"On  the  firing-line.  Just  a  scratch,  but — blood- 
poisoning.  They  sent  him  back  to  Cavite  and  cut  off 
his  arm." 

A  proud  joy  shot  through  the  Captain's  face.  He 
cleared  his  throat  oracularly. 

"An  arm  ? — bah !  It'll  make  a  man  of  the  boy.  A 
mere  scratch — you  should  have  seen  our  colonel,  sir, 
at  Kenesaw — his  shoulder  shot  to  ribbons — " 

"I  know,"  faltered  Arnold,  to  this  familiar  story. 
"But  Larry  can't  come  soon  as  we  hoped.  You'll  be 
patient,  Captain." 

The  Captain's  grand  air  heightened.  His  fingers 
went  to  the  little  button  of  the  Loyal  Legion  on  his 
coat.  Ah,  no,  it  was  nothing!  He  was  a  Georgian, 
but  he  had  fought  for  the  North  because,  under  that 
same  flag,  his  father  had  fought  with  Jackson  at  New 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  59 

Orleans.  He  had  cut  himself  off  from  his  people,  but 
after  the  war,  angered  at  the  Reconstruction,  he  had 
resigned  from  the  national  service.  They  had  been 
hard  years  since,  while  a  film  was  blotting  the  sun 
from  his  eyes,  but  he  had  not  complained.  Never 
would  he  accept  a  pension  from  a  Government  that  had 
treated  his  South  as  it  had  been  treated ;  one  could  be 
proud,  one  could  be  clean,  one  could  be  patient — it 
was  enough  that  one  had  served.  These  were  strange 
days  now — a  commercial  gabble  of  corruption  and 
the  ways  of  money,  hard  to  understand ;  and  a  man 
who  had  fought  at  Shiloh,  at  the  Wilderness,  and  had 
caught  his  dead  colonel  at  Kenesaw,  and  was  going 
blind,  had  better  stay  from  it.  He  had  one  son,  but 
Lawrence  had  been  a  wild  fellow — a  profligate  with 
this  town  man,  Arnold,  in  camp  and  bar-room.  Well, 
maybe  he  would  redeem  himself  in  the  Philippines 
with  Lawton  and  MacArthur.  One  could  be  patient. 
The  poverty  of  an  attic  was  nothing,  loneliness  was 
nothing,  darkness  was  nothing,  if  one  could  wait, 
patient  and  clean,  for  this  reckless  boy  to  come  back 
redeemed  on  the  firing-line  in  the  honor  of  service. 

The  Captain  glanced  about,  nodding  sagely.  He 
was  trying  to  conceal  his  proud  joy;  it  was  better  than 
one  could  expect — to  have  one's  son  wounded  in  such 
a  petty  affair  as  this  in  Samar.  His  hand  went  to  the 
scar  in  his  bushy  brow  as  he  frowned  to  dissemble  his 
thoughts. 

"An  arm  gone — um — um !  I  hope  they  won't  baby 
the  boy.  What  of  his  comrades,  sir — and  the  action — 
what  was  it?" 

The  young  man  took  the  veteran's  arm  and  led  him 


60  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

apart  from  the  women.  "Captain,"  he  whispered,  "it 
was  splendid!  A  sergeant  at  the  Presidio,  just 
returned,  told  me.  It  was  a  place  called  Bamboang. 
The  fellows  held  an  old  church  all  day  against  thou- 
sands. Larry  was  shot  trying  to  drag  a  comrade  from 
danger— he'll  get  the  Honor  Medal !" 

The  Captain  started  in  the  infinite  issues  of  feeling. 
The  dim  hall  light  glimmered  in  his  eyes  until  he  saw, 
through  a  fulguration  of  glory,  his  son,  a  heroic  figure, 
a  symbol  of  the  older  Republic,  clean,  ennobled,  trans- 
figured. He  turned  to  the  dark  to  hide  his  brimming 
tears  from  Arnold. 

"Well,  well,  sir!" 

They  saluted  each  other  gravely  as  two  officers  at 
parade.  The  veteran  turned  to  the  stairs. 

"And,  Captain,  it's  all  right  about  the  money.  Larry 
doesn't  need  it.  We've  arranged  so  that  he'll  send  it 
to  me,  and  I'll  hand  it  to  you — three  dollars  a  week. 
It's  fine  of  Larry." 

"I  thank  you,  sir."  The  Captain's  air  was  brusk. 
This  was  irrelevant,  this  money  talk.  He  went  down 
the  front  stairs,  tap,  tap,  tapping  with  his  cane,  to 
walk  the  block  in  the  sunshine,  remembering  always 
that  a  soldier  must  keep  his  shoulders  back. 

Arnold  stood  with  folded  arms  gazing  after  him. 
"I  am  an  elegant  liar."  He  checked  a  smile.  "The 
Captain's  got  small  use  for  me.  Larry — it's  tough  to 
go  that  way !" 

His  mind  went  back  to  his  dead  bunky ;  to  the  moon- 
light nights  on  the  Lunetta — to  Inez  and  Josefa,  and 
that  Tagalog  girl  at  Santa  Ysabel.  He  had  loved  in 
many  ports  and  byways;  he  thought  of  his  days  of 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  61 

youth,  of  the  price  he  had  paid  for  them ;  of  the  dead 
trooper  sleeping  in  Samar — a  bit  of  his  own  life  was 
bound  up  in  the  moonlight  on  the  island  shores. 
Maybe  Larry  was  the  happier  man ! 

A  touch  came  to  his  arm;  his  bride  of  to-day  was 
looking  up  at  him. 

"He  wasn't  so  bad,  was  he — Larry  ?  Did  he  quarrel 
with  his  father?  Wouldn't  he  come  home?" 

"Little  girl,  he  was  just  like  me — my  bunky." 

"Miss  Cranberry  says  that  you've  been  paying  his 
father's  room  rent  and  for  his  meals  and  pretending 
all  the  time  that  Larry  sent  the  money.  What'll  you  do 
now?" 

"Kid,  I  don't  know.  Do  you  think  I'd  tell  the  Cap- 
tain that  his  son  was  killed  in  a  dirty  barrack  row? 
He's  too  blind  to  read  the  papers — he  never  sees  any 
one — he'll  never  need  to  know." 

"He'll  just  wait,"  said  Miss  Cranberry.  "The 
grand  old  man !" 

"Let  him  wait,"  retorted  Arnold.  "We'll  muddle 
through  somehow!" 

The  old  woman  went  bustling  off  to  get  her  rolls 
and  bacon.  The  two  lovers  sat  in  the  grimy  little 
kitchen  facing  the  air-shaft ;  on  one  side  was  the  gas 
stove,  on  the  other  the  dining-table,  with  the  cracked 
oilcloth.  "Admiral  Byng,"  the  Cranberry  parrot, 
swung  on  his  dirty  perch  in  the  window  and  squawked 
at  the  Liquor  Store  cat,  who,  utilizing  the  entire  build- 
ing in  his  forays,  had  arrived  for  breakfast  with 
Granny. 

The  old  woman's  voice  came  in  an  excited  query 
from  the  stairs.  Then  she  flew  breathlessly  to  the 


62  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

kitchen.  "A  guest,  dearie,"  she  cried.  "A  gentleman 
to  see  my  little  mountain  girl!" 

Following  Miss  Cranberry  was  a  tall  man  whom 
Sylvia  seized  on  in  delight.  His  face  and  neck  were 
burned  to  a  dull  red,  the  powerful  jaws  were  clean- 
shaven, his  eyes  very  blue;  and  he  wore  the  "best 
clothes"  of  a  woodsman — funeral  black,  with  a  little 
butterfly  tie  of  brilliant  purple  under  his  celluloid  col- 
lar. He  carried  a  cotton  flour  sack  filled  with  some 
protuberant  stuff  under  one  arm,  and  about  his  clean 
shoes  crawled  a  small  pointer  pup  of  the  most  unimag- 
inable color  as  dogs  go.  That  pup  was  only  a  shade 
more  subdued  than  the  woodsman's  necktie. 

The  stranger's  eyes  shone  with  satisfaction  as  he 
released  Sylvia's  fingers. 

"I  brought  the  pup,"  he  began,  "an'  I'm  the  delegate 
to  this  weddin'." 

"Why,  Louisville !"  she  cried  in  her  laughing.  "It's 
just  fine!" 

"An*  Miss  Winkle  sent  you  some  dried  apples,"  con- 
tinued the  man  from  the  North.  "Came  from  the 
clearin*  over  the  ridge  on  the  South  Fork — yes,  seh !" 

"Jack,"  began  his  bride-to-be,  in  some  confusion, 
"this  is  Mr.  Banway.  He's  head  faller  at  Camp  Nine. 
The  boys  all  call  him  Louisville." 

"Bo'n  in  Kentucky  when  I  was  quite  young,"  said 
Mr.  Banway,  with  a  pleased  and  reminiscent  joke. 
Young  Mr.  Arnold  extended  his  hand  genially,  as  the 
woodsman  inserted  a  finger  to  hoist  his  celluloid 
collar. 

"Glad  to  meet  you — any  friend  of  Sylvia's — " 

He  was  interrupted  by  a  cry  from  the  girl.    She  was 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  63 

staring  at  a  squab  of  a  child  in  denim  overalls,  his 
yellow  curls  under  a  knit  red  cap,  who  was  peering 
trustfully  about  the  balustrade. 

"O,  Louisville!" 

"The  Camp  said  to  bring  it  to  you.  Mrs.  Baker 
went  to  Arcata,  an'  there  wasn't  a  woman  left  at 
Nine.  We  all  rememb'd  you  said  you'd  take  it.  So 
the  skid-boss  give  it  them  overalls — " 

Sylvia  was  laughing  over  the  small  man,  laughing 
and  blushing  and  twisting  his  curls.  Arnold,  too,  fell 
to  smiling  at  her  pretty  confusion  and  with  his  own 
wonder. 

"Its  mother  cooked  at  Nine,"  said  Sylvia ;  "then  she 
died  at  the  hospital  in  Arcata  last  summer.  Mrs. 
Baker  and  I  cared  for  it  when  I  came  down  from  Trin- 
ity to  the  big  trees.  All  the  boys  in  the  slashin'  stand 
by  the  Cookhouse  Kid— he's  so  little." 

"And  is  he — it — ours  now?"  inquired  Mr.  Arnold. 

"Well,  I  don't  know — I  promised — because  I  had 
nothing  to  do — and  the  boys  all  said — " 

"And  that  pup?  Louisville,  what's  the  matter  with 
the  dog?" 

"Belonged  to  an  Arcata  dye-house  man,"  related  Mr. 
Banway  solemnly.  "Used  to  be  white,  that  spike-tail 
pup.  The  dye  man  thought  he'd  make  him  into  a 
walkin'  adve'tisement,  so  he  put  him  in  the  blue  vat 
an'  then  tried  to  paint  'Arcata  Dye  Works'  on  his  ribs 
in  red  and  yellow  trimmin's.  Well,  that  fool  dog 
began  to  pe'spire  before  he  got  dry,  and  the  colehs 
run,  and  when  the  pup  saw  himself,  he  did,  too,  and 
crawled  into  the  bay.  Reguleh  Easteh-egg  dog  afteh 
them  colehs  run.  Dye  man  was  so  'shamed  o'  that  job 


64  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

that  he  sent  the  pup  up  to  the  woods  to  bleach. 
Trouble  was  he  couldn't  boil  the  dog  so's  the  colehs'd 
stick.  We  gave  'im  to  the  Cookhouse  Kid,  an'  he  sits 
round  remorseful,  speculatin'  if  he  hadn't  oughte'  been 
boiled,  afteh  all.  Reguleh  scrambled-egg  dog." 

"Now  he's  a  real  lavender,"  added  the  girl  from  the 
country-up-in-back. 

The  grave-faced  young  man  of  the  city  stood  look- 
ing at  his  bride-to-be,  at  the  pup,  at  the  dried  apples 
and  the  Cookhouse  Kid ;  there  were  some  aspects  of 
matrimony  that  apparently  he  had  not  considered.  The 
Northerner  seemed  to  read  his  study. 

"They  all  go  along  with  heh"  he  added;  "sorteh 
mutual." 

"Louisville,  I  don't  mind  marrying  the  dog  and  the 
dried  apples,  but  I  don't  know  about  another  man's 
baby—" 

"John,  it's  such  a  little  one !"  cried  the  bride-to-be. 

J.  Hamilton  Arnold  removed  his  hat  and  bowed 
with  debonair  mischief. 

"Sweetheart,  with  you  I'd  marry  the  whole  of  north- 
ern California.  Blue  dogs  and  babies  ? — why,  it's  sim- 
ply great!" 

"Come  to  breakfast,"  cried  Miss  Cranberry  from 
the  smoky  kitchen,  and  they  were  marshaled  in; 
Sylvia  with  the  manikin,  and  Mr.  Banway  with  the 
dried  apples.  The  black-eyed  Italian  children  left  the 
room,  having  eaten ;  and  Angelo  took  his  sister  of  five 
down  to  Happy  Alley  to  play  while  he  went  to  the 
flower  market.  Miss  Granny's  kitchen  had  never  had 
such  a  packing  about  its  little  wall  table;  and  never 
was  the  old  woman  so  vivacious,  so  happily  engrossed. 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  65 

She  heaped  their  plates  and  scolded  when  they  would 
have  no  more ;  she  asked  a  multitude  of  questions.  In 
fifteen  minutes  she  knew  the  history  of  the  waif  from 
the  big  woods,  of  Mr.  Banway,  the  price  of  condensed 
milk  in  Camp  Nine,  what  a  "soogler"  was,  and  how 
long  the  skid-boss  had  had  the  boil  on  his  neck;  and 
had,  in  return,  given  the  woodsman  three  different 
remedies  to  carry  back  for  the  afflicted.  With  each 
revelation  of  the  big  woods  and  their  life  she  was 
swamped  in  shrill  wonder;  forty  years  of  lodging 
houses  had  not  dulled  her  eager,  child's  appreciation 
of  the  marvelous  world. 

"Some  of  them  redwoods  along  Little  River  is  three 
hundred  and  sixty  feet  high,"  concluded  one  of  the 
woodsman's  tales,  "an'  the  tops  grow  into  a  mat  so 
thick  the  sun  neveh  reaches  the  ground,  and  down  in 
the  glades  the  ferns  grow  six  feet  tall.  By  Mighty, 
what  a  silence!" 

Miss  Cranberry  could  not  believe  it ;  her  black  eyes 
sparkled,  her  mouth  worked  as  she  groped  for  a  suf- 
ficing imagination. 

"And  beyond  the  redwoods  and  the  camps  in  the 
slashin's,"  added  Sylvia,  "is  the  country-up-in-back, 
where  7  came  from!" 

"Sixty  mile  o'  mountain  trail  to  Trinity,"  resumed 
the  woodsman ;  "that's  how  we  brought  heh  out ! 
The's  no  fog  up-in-back — no  ferns  an'  redwoods — it's 
green  an'  sunny  all  the  way." 

"And  flowers!  How'd  you  like  to  see  seven  miles 
of  poppies  along  a  trail,  and  great  blue  and  purple 
spikes  and  daisies  and  buttercups — so  many  flowers 
on  so  many  hills  that  they  are  just  a  blur?" 


66  THE  DAY   OF   SOULS 

•'An'  nobody  but  the  coyotes  to  smell  'em,"  Mr.  Ban- 
way  confirmed. 

The  little,  old  lady  sat  back.  In  her  grimy  air- 
shaft,  under  the  parrot's  shelter,  she  had  one  hyacinth 
bulb  that  Frank  Arasaka,  the  Japanese  medical  stu- 
dent, had  given  her  when  he  had  lived  in  the  block  and 
had  received  her  help  through  the  fortuitous,  occi- 
dental wisdom  of  "Is  That  a  Cat?"  Long  she  had 
tended  the  hyacinth,  but  it  would  not  blossom,  and 
here  was  a  flower  empire  lorded  by  the  yapping  coy- 
otes !  She  fell  into  a  daze,  and  even  when  the  guests 
extricated  themselves  with  a  well-generaled  manoeuver 
of  chairs,  from  the  kitchen,  she  was  still  absorbed. 

On  the  sunny  balcony  over  the  alley  Arnold  offered 
Banway  a  cigar. 

"When's  the  big  show  coming  off?"  queried  the 
guest. 

"Some  time  to-day.  It  won't  be  much,  but  you're 
in  on  it,  Louisville." 

"You  goin'  to  be  good  to  heh — you  town  man? 
You  see,  the  camps'll  neveh  fo'get  that  preacheh's 
girl.  He  was  the  only  man  c'd  come  into  the  woods 
an'  tell  us  about  ou'  souls.  All  the  big,  rough  country 
from  the  South  Fo'k  to  the  sea  sorteh  raised  heh. 
How-so  she  come  to  be  a  laidy,  I  cyan't  see,  but 
she  is." 

"She's  the  best  I  ever  knew." 

"I  hea'd  you'd  been  a  pretty  wild  one?" 

"Well,  you  know  how  a  man  knocks  around." 

"I  like  you,  som-a-way.  I  see  you  lookin'  right  at 
dogs  and  babies — an'  that  old  woman  wouldn't  be  you' 
friend  if  you  weren't  tole'able.  I  guess  that  God 


THE   DAY   OF    SOULS  67 

A'mighty'll  pass  up  a  lot  of  deviltry  in  them  that  smiled 
an'  didn't  fear  His  world." 

"Old  man,"  said  Arnold,  "let's  go  have  a  drink/' 

They  went  down  and  through  Unc'  Pop's  grocery, 
with  its  shelves  of  soap  and  canned  goods,  and  kegs 
of  fish  and  pickles,  to  the  tiny  bar. 

"When  A'mighty  made  a  good  woman/'  said  the 
woodsman,  as  a  toast,  "I  guess  He  knew  what  He 
needed  to  get  us  all  stampeded  fo'  His  Kingdom." 

Mr.  Banway  grew  solemnly  inclined  after  that;  he 
excused  himself,  saying  he  had  business  on  the  city 
front  and  would  return  at  four  o'clock  for  the  mar- 
riage, yet  indeterminate  as  to  the  exact  hour.  Arnold 
and  his  bride  were  to  shop. 

He  took  her  down  through  the  sunny  morning 
affairs  of  Kearny  Street,  loitering  here,  there,  at  the 
windows.  Sylvia  lost  her  night-dread  of  the  city ;  its 
glitter,  light,  motion,  the  sheen  of  silks  and  the  jewels 
in  the  store  fronts  came  to  overwhelm  her,  and  she 
flitted  from  one  charm  to  another,  with  little  cries  of 
delight,  a  bound  of  soul,  a  woman  finding  her  own  in 
the  primal  love  of  pretty  things,  the  gay,  comforting 
vanities  for  which  cities  are  builded. 

Arnold  took  her  to  the  very  best  shop  in  the  city, 
and  when  she  became  lost  in  the  crush,  for  the  fash- 
ionable trade  was  at  its  flood,  he  went  to  the  vestibule 
of  the  store  to  await  her.  Near  him  in  the  street  was 
a  smart  victoria,  the  horses  superb,  the  coachman  cor- 
rect, the  single  occupant  a  young  woman  about  whose 
throat  was  swathed  a  fluff  of  chiffon  and  feathers. 
She  was  comfortably  fixed  in  the  cushions,  apparently 
awaiting  some  shopper.  The  young  man's  mind  dwelt 


68  THE  DAY   OF   SOULS 

on  this,  for  at  once  he  glanced  from  the  carriage 
back  into  the  store  and  turned  aside  by  the  doors.  But 
another  young  woman,  coming  out,  had  seen  him. 
She  went  directly  to  him  with  a  surprised  smile,  greet- 
ing him  with  distinct  pleasure  as  though  she  had  come 
on  an  opportunity  long  deferred.  She  was  tall, 
exquisitely  tailored  in  a  gray  morning  dress,  with  the 
freshness  of  grooming  added  to  her  radiant  health ;  a 
woman  of  thirty,  clear-skinned,  fine-looking  from  a 
distinctive,  deliberate  originality  and  shrewdness,  that 
surmounted  the  conventionality  of  clothes  and  class, 
and  marked  her  at  once  as  a  Californian  born  and  bred. 

A  studied  indifference  enveloped  Arnold  as  he  took 
the  hand  she  offered ;  he  would  rather  not  have  met  her. 

"But  you  couldn't  evade  me,  could  you?"  she  said 
clearly. 

"Not  in  the  least,"  he  laughed,  shaken  from  his 
defense;  "we  haven't  met  often  of  late,  Edith.  I 
thought  perhaps  you  had  accepted  the  situation." 

"That  you  had  resolved  to  lose  us  altogether?  Of 
course  you'll  say  you've  been  busy — another  amateur 
opera,  wasn't  it,  up  in  the  Valley  ?" 

"I  needed  a  vacation,  and,  still  more,  the  money." 

"Of  course  you  did.  I  remember  when  you  and 
Watt  were  suspended  from  the  university,  and  both 
borrowed  money  of  wie  to  run  down  to  Honolulu  until 
your  respective  dads  could  look  at  the  matter  differ- 
ently. You  haven't  improved  a  great  deal." 

"And  I've  had  more  than  a  chance  in  the  past  eight 
years." 

She  turned  keenly  to  affirm  an  impression  that  a 
shade  of  bitter  satire  was  in  his  careless  humor.  Miss 


THE   DAY   OF    SOULS  69 

Chatom  knew  vaguely  his  way  of  life;  she  had  tried 
patiently  ever  since  the  ruin  of  his  father's  fortunes 
and  reputation  to  make  a  friend  of  Jack  Arnold,  who 
had  been  her  playmate  in  their  Sonoma  County  child- 
hood, and  a  chum  of  her  brother  Watt  through  a  desul- 
tory college  career  that  ended  when  the  elder  Arnold 
was  sent  to  San  Quentin  for  the  wrecking  of  the  Irri- 
gation Company  through  a  floating  of  illegal  bonds. 
That  was  before  Barren  Chatom  reorganized  the  com- 
pany and  came  to  the  city,  where  he  had  risen  to  power 
and  wealth  on  the  foundations  that  had  ruined  Selden 
Arnold.  The  elder  men  had  been  business  friends ;  the 
children  cordially  intimate. 

When  Selden  Arnold  was  convicted,  his  fortune 
lost,  and  his  only  son  dropped  from  the  whirl  of  the 
litigious  struggle  into  a  trooper's  saddle  in  the  Sec- 
ond Cavalry,  Watt  and  Edith  Chatom  never  for  a 
moment  wavered  in  their  friendship  for  Jack  Arnold. 
Edith  met  him  five  years  later,  a  returned  time-expired 
man,  and  received  him  with  friendly  eagerness;  she 
could  have  done  much  for  him,  but  he  consistently 
rebuffed  her.  Watt  Chatom  was  busied  with  his  ranch- 
ing enterprises  in  the  San  Joaquin,  rushing  from  the 
city  in  his  ninety-horse-power  machine  to  tear  half 
the  length  of  the  state  and  surprise  his  Stanislaus 
County  tenants,  and  then  charging  on  to  San  Luis 
Obispo,  where  he  had  another  nine-thousand-acre 
wheat  farm.  Therefore,  he  could  assist  little  in  the  re- 
claiming of  Arnold. 

And  after  a  year  curious  stories  came  to  Edith's 
circle;  she  ignored  them  and  still  laid  stratagems  to 
lure  her  childhood's  friend  back  to  the  old  comrade- 


70  THE   DAY   OF    SOULS 

ship.  But  John  Arnold,  himself,  would  have  none  of 
it;  he  had  never  been  to  the  great  house  Chatom  had 
built  on  Pacific  Avenue ;  he  evaded  Edith  with  inscrut- 
able smiles  at  their  inadvertent  meetings.  She  had  an 
irritating  feeling  that  he  held  their  ways  apart  from  a 
cynical  realization  of  their  social  differentiation,  as 
much  as  from  his  penury  or  the  remembrance  of  his 
wounded  name,  and  this  galled  her  with  a  sense  of 
injustice.  For  she  cared  nothing  about  society  in  its 
strict  sense;  from  her  assured  position,  she  even  dis- 
dained it.  She  went  to  the  best  plays,  operas,  and 
concerts ;  she  concerned  herself  with  higher  club  activ- 
ities, read  the  best  literature,  befriended  artistic  aspir- 
ants in  painting  and  music,  went  among  the  university 
people  across  the  bay,  and  for  her  recreation  drove, 
rode  or  played  golf  at  the  Presidio.  She  had  been  for 
years  engaged  to  an  ambitious  man  of  science,  an 
official  of  the  federal  forestry  service.  She  had  an 
honest  striving  after  the  best  human  expression,  and 
but  a  smiling  tolerance  for  either  the  self-conscious 
Bohemianism  of  San  Francisco,  or  its  exclusive  cir- 
cles, a  society  which  hung  open-mouthed  on  the  club 
witticisms  of  one  liquor  dealer,  and  whose  season  was 
opened  annually  with  the  ball  given  by  another,  an 
occasion  which  contributed  much  to  the  advertisement 
of  his  wares. 

Therefore  she  resented  John  Arnold's  arrogation 
of  an  essential  barrier  to  their  friendship.  She  cared 
nothing  about  his  family  or  personal  vicissitudes ;  she 
understood  that  he  was  "doing  politics,"  in  some  way 
or  other,  for  a  municipal  administration  notoriously 
corrupt;  that  he  was  hand-in-glove  with  an  element 


THE   DAY   OF    SOULS  71 

evilly  dominant;  but  she  also  understood  that  these 
were  the  ways  of  men  in  affairs.  Her  father  held  his 
power  by  dealing-  with  or  utilizing  these  same  social 
forces,  and  she  had  not  touched  life  poignantly  enough 
to  shrink  from  dissembling  these  aspects  of  it.  Watt 
had  told  her  once  that  Jack  lived  in  a  "queer  joint" 
near  Chinatown ;  that  he  had  helped  carry  his  district 
for  'the  race-track  crowd,  and  could  probably  get 
"something  good"  at  the  city  hall  if  he  went  after  it. 

Beyond  that,  she  had  heard  little  of  him  except  in 
connection  with  some  of  the  bitter,  perennial  news- 
paper charges  of  ballot-box  corruption,  which  were 
too  common  in  the  city  to  be  considered;  and  once, 
driving  on  Grant  Avenue,  she  saw  him  standing,  with 
his  collar  turned  up,  gazing  in  the  window  of  a  cheap 
restaurant — the  day  after  Watt's  gelding  won  the  ten- 
thousand-dollar  California  stakes  at  Emeryville. 

Miss  Chatom  tightened  the  small  parcel  under  her 
arm.  A  glance  at  the  carriage  showed  that  her  cousin 
Chrissie  was  getting  impatient.  She  turned  on  Arnold 
with  a  defiant  pleasantry  concealing  her  reproach. 

"I  don't  suppose  it's  any  use  to  repeat  my  invitation 
for  you  to  call,  Jack,  is  it  ?" 

He  smiled  with  regretful  conviction. 

"I  have  been  indecent  about  it  all.  But  you'd  be 
surprised  if  I  told  you  I  might  wish  to — and  to  wipe 
out  a  lot  that's  past." 

"Don't  bother  about  troublesome  'mights.'     Come." 

"It'll  be  different,"  he  said ;  and  then,  with  sudden 
cloggedness,  "Edith,  I'm  going  to  be  married." 

She  drew  back  in  quick  surprise. 

"I  am.    To  a  girl  I  met  up  in  the  country.    She  has 


72  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

some  money;  and  she's  shopping  now  in  here."  He 
glanced  about  and  pointed  quietly  up  the  store  corridor 
past  a  crush  of  women.  "That  girl — the  one  in  blue — 
at  the  glove  counter." 

Miss  Chatom's  cool  eyes  found  the  objective.  Arnold 
turned  from  his  bride  to  watch  the  woman  of  wealth. 
Sylvia  was  much  better  looking,  still  there  was  the 
ineffaceable  thing  about  Edith  that  the  town  man 
values  highly — a  superb  completeness,  a  round  salience 
of  character;  whatever  she  might  have*  lacked  for  her 
life's  expression,  breeding  and  the  wond  had  artfully 
supplied. 

Edith  turned  to  him  with  a  suggestion  of  a  smile. 

"Why,  Jack— and  money?    Is  that  it?" 

"I  shouldn't  wonder,"  a  bitter  defense  was  behind 
his  smile.  "I'm  past  most  anything  else,  don't  you 
imagine  ?" 

"And  you  love  her?" 

"No,"  he  said  slowly,  and  repeated,  "no." 

She  drew  from  his  cool  smile.  After  a  while,  think- 
ing of  it,  fixing  him  with  her  clear  eyes,  Miss  diatom 
said :  "You  won't — you're  not  that  sort." 

"I'm  the  lone  wolf,  and  I  hunt,"  he  murmured. 
With  Edith  Chatom,  with  any  one  who  had  the  recep- 
tiveness  of  a  culture  that  he  had  known,  he  dropped 
the  slang  that  was  his  careless  habit  with  his  familiars. 
"Maybe  the  figure  is  a  trifle  forced,  but  that's  it — I'm 
the  lone  wolf  who  doesn't  even  train  with  his  pack." 

"But  you  won't  do  this — you  can't.  You  had  ambi- 
tions once — ideals.  You  could  have  raised  yourself  to 
anything,  despite  all.  You  could  have  been  all  that  I 
might  have  wished  for  you.  And  that's  a  deal.  Jack, 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  73 

I  never  forgot  you — I  tried  to  help,  even  when  you 
were  insolent  to  me !" 

He  smiled  grimly,  again  his  "sufficient  self,  past  the 
need  of  excuse,  recalling  that  the  height  from  which 
she  reproved  him,  the  leisured  culture  that  had  made 
her,  was  based  on  her  father's  wealth,  which  had  pros- 
tituted the  ideals  of  a  state,  cohabited  with  every  un- 
speakable essential  of  success,  and  stopped  at  no  law 
of  God  or  man — that  had,  in  his  own  obscure  corner, 
corrupted  him  and  made  him  what  he  was  before  her. 
But  his  smile  turned  to  an  impersonal  humoring  of  a 
sudden  whim. 

"It  all  happened  once  upon  a  time,"  he  said;  "she 
was  a  simple  maid  of  Arcady,  and  he  came  riding 
through  the  wood.  She  was  fair,  and  he  loitered  by 
the  way.  He  loved  her  because  she  was  fair,  and  she 
turned  out  to  be  the  rich  princess  who  was  under  a 
spell  in  Arcady  until  he  came.  It's  a  dandy  little  story 
— I've  thought  of  it  a  deal." 

The  bright-faced  girl  in  the  velvet  gown  of  the 
country  was  coming  toward  them,  under  her  arm  an 
enormous  package. 

Miss  Chatom  snapped  shut  her  gold-woven  bag. 

"Jack,  if  you're  worth  her,  you  won't  marry  her — 
you  won't!  If  you  don't  love  her,  she'll  never  help 
you  rise,  and  if  you  go  down,  she'll  go  with  you. 
Don't  do  it — don't!" 

Jack  Arnold  went  forward  to  relieve  his  bride  of 
the  bundle,  to  explain  that  it  would  be  sent  by  carrier. 
He  smiled  gravely  at  her  pretty  vivacity  as  she  related 
her  adventures  in  the  big  store.  Miss  Chatom  regarded 
them  an  instant  from  the  doors  and  then  went  to  the 


74  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

carriage  by  the  curb.  Some  desperate  regret  was  at 
her  heart ;  it  was  as  though  the  prelude  of  a  tragedy 
had  been  shown  forth;  one  waited  for  the  curtain  to 
rise,  and  yet  knew  forebodingly  what  the  climacteric 
would  bring.  She  stepped  up  beside  her  cousin. 

"Wasn't  that  Jack  Arnold  you  were  talking  to 
inside?"  queried  Chrissie  carelessly.  "Some  one  told 
me  he  was  living  in  Chinatown  and  was  going  to  be 
arrested  for  something  or  other." 

"It  was  Jack.    But  all  that  isn't  so,  Chrissie." 

"Captain  Carlin  told  me  once  that  he  was  a  splendid 
soldier  in  the  cavalry — cool  and  silent  and  obedient — 
and  he  was  a  private  in  the  toughest  troop  in  the  serv- 
ice. He  did  something  fine  in  that  march  on  Peking — 
he  should  have  stayed  in  the  army." 

"Yes,"  answered  Miss  Chatom,  "if  he  only  had!" 


CHAPTER  IV 

Arnold  and  his  sweetheart  idled  an  hour  along  Mar- 
ket Street  on  the  sunny  side  of  the  Slot.  They  were 
scrutinized  sharply  by  every  one  at  the  great  open- 
front  cigar  shops,  those  peculiar  establishments  having 
something  of  the  atmosphere  and  freedom  of  the  club, 
indigenous  to  old  San  Francisco,  which  the  equable 
climate  fostered — a  store  opening  along  its  entire  front 
or  side  to  the  street,  with  an  ornate  iron  screen  at  the 
top  and  a  tessellated  floor  from  counter  to  sidewalk. 
Here  the  warming  sun,  never  too  hot  for  comfort, 
streamed  in,  and  the  afternoon  street  idlers,  fashion- 
ably dressed  young  men,  watched  the  shoppers  and 
matinee-goers,  and  gossiped  over  the  form  bulletins  of 
the  races,  or  bought  the  tipsters'  sheets  hawked  about 
by  the  newsboys. 

Arnold  and  his  bride  were  by  the  front  of  a  shoe 
store,  when  a  bareheaded  young  man,  critically  looking 
over  the  window  display,  spoke  to  him  with  great 
heartiness;  a  sunny-faced  fellow,  boyish,  eager  with 
the  day's  life,  prodigal  of  its  youth.  He  did  not  dis- 
cern at  the  first  glance  that  Sylvia  was  Arnold's  com- 
panion. 

"Hello,  Hammy!  What's  doing  in  the  third  race 
to-day.  That  Stillman  colt  all  the  way,  isn't  it?" 

"Hasn't  a  chance,"  retorted  Arnold;  "Innocent 
brings  the  money." 

75 


76  THE  DAY   OF   SOULS 

Eddie  Ledyard's  face  clouded.  "They  were  just 
telling  me — do  you  suppose  Nella  knows  anything 
about  it  ?  She  hears  a  lot  of  inside  talk,  doesn't  she  ?" 

"Nella?    Where'd  you  see  her?" 

"O,  I  just  met  her  at  Skelly's — she  was  talking  with 
some  fellow  who  is  following  the  wise  money  at  the 
track.  But  Innocent — " 

Arnold  glanced  at  Sylvia's  unconscious  study  of  the 
store  display.  He  crooked  his  forefinger  under 
Eddie's  nose.  "Son,  keep  away  from  that  girl  Nella. 
She's  got  sort  of  a  foolishness  about  you — and  you 
know  better !" 

Eddie  Ledyard  laughed  blithely.  "O,  of  course — 
it's  only  a  josh!"  Then  his  eyes  gripped  their  little 
worry.  "But  Innocent — good,  eh?" 

"Only  horse  in  the  race."  Ham  waved  a  debonair 
adieu,  guiding  his  bride  along  the  way. 

The  boyish  bookkeeper  looked  doubtfully  after  him. 
Arnold  should  know;  he  was  close  to  the  "dope,"  so 
the  Street  had  it,  and  he  never  said  things  without  a 
reason.  Ham  didn't  play  the  races  much,  but  now  and 
then  his  name  was  buzzed  about  with  a  "killing" — he 
was  a  fellow  who  was  let  in  on  "good  things"  by  the 
wise  people,  which  was  the  reason  a  certain  youthful 
coterie  hung  on  any  word  from  him.  Eddie  smiled 
a  farewell  at  Arnold,  who  was  moving  on  with  the 
girl  in  blue.  The  boys  had  been  more  than  street 
friends — Eddie  Ledyard  was  a  freshman  at  Lick  High 
School  when  Jack  Arnold  graduated,  and  they  had 
played  on  the  same  foot-ball  team  the  senior's  last 
season. 

At  eleven  o'clock,  when  the  tide  of  life  through 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  77 

Market  Street  was  quickening,  the  loiterers  turned  to 
a  car  that  would  transfer  to  the  Cliff  ride.  Before  the 
entrance  of  an  office  building  across  the  thoroughfare 
stood  a  red  automobile ;  a  man  in  the  tonneau  was  sig- 
naling sharply  to  Arnold.  Then  he  descended  from 
the  machine  with  another  quick  gesture. 

Arnold  paused.  "Sylvia,  I'm  wanted."  He  glanced 
irresolutely  about  as  if  loath  to  take  her  across  to  the 
stranger,  yet  at  a  loss  as  to  where  she  might  be  left. 
Then  he  nodded  at  the  man  by  the  red  car  and  turned 
to  Sylvia.  "I'll  have  to  go,  Kid.  Suppose  you  wait 
in  the  parlors  of  the  big  store  we  were  in — just  a  few 
minutes." 

She  was  more  than  pleased. 

Arnold  crossed  to  the  vestibule  of  the  Security 
Building,  where  Police  Commissioner  Stillman  awaited 
him.  He  was  a  brisk,  alert-eyed  man  who  had 
been  of  the  "Handsome  Harry"  type  in  his  university 
days,  ten  years  ago,  before  he  acquired  his  flesh; 
a  joker,  a  raconteur,  of  flattering  address,  never 
at  a  loss  for  a  quip,  an  indefatigable  worker,  a  lieuten- 
ant of  the  boss,  a  shrewd  attorney  of  the  firm  of 
Chatom,  Bence  and  Company.  But  for  politic  reasons 
the  police  commissioner's  name  was  not  on  the  gilt 
legend  across  the  windows  of  the  great  law  offices,  to 
a  secluded  room  of  which  he  now,  in  great  joviality, 
conducted  Arnold.  He  had  sent  messengers  for  the 
young  man  that  morning  and  had  scoured  the  city  for 
him  the  previous  night,  unavailingly,  he  said — and  it 
was  a  matter  of  importance.  Stillman  closed  the 
opaque  glass  window  to  an  outer  room,  where  two 


78  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

clerks  pored  over  papers  and  reports;  the  other  win- 
dow looked  down  on  the  spacious  court  of  the  building. 

The  politician  offered  a  cigar  and  sat  back  easily  in 
his  desk  chair,  smiling  over  one  of  his  witticisms.  His 
manner  was  ingratiating,  a  patronizing  more  flattering 
than  unpleasant;  his  study  of  the  younger  man  was 
unobtrusive,  but  incessant. 

Stillman  was  the  right-hand  man  of  the  boss,  as  cool, 
wily,  astute  as  the  boss  himself ;  he  was  known  in  the 
street  as  the  "rent  collector."  Through  his  connection 
with  the  boss  and  his  position  on  the  police  board, 
where  his  associates  were  merely  puppets,  he  was  the 
autocrat  of  the  five  thousand  saloons  and  resorts  in 
the  city,  and  of  their  forty  thousand  denizens  and 
habitues.  From  the  millionaire  liquor  dealers — shin- 
ing lights  of  San  Francisco  society — down  the  descend- 
ing scale  to  the  Barbary  Coast,  he,  the  overlord,  drew 
power  through  his  hidden  and  intricate  associations. 
With  the  boss  he  assisted  at  extorting  money  from 
every  evil  traffic;  their  business  genius  founded  and 
directed  a  score  of  enterprises  that  flourished  through 
their  connection  with  the  mayor.  With  one  man  they 
were  secretly  associated  in  fire  insurance,  and  it  was 
seen  that  every  saloon  and  dive-keeper  took  out  pol- 
icies with  this  concern ;  with  another  they  established 
a  great  crockery  and  glass  store,  and  every  cafe  and 
"French  Restaurant"  needing  police  acquiescence  in 
its  methods  saw  the  logic  of  purchasing  exclusively 
through  this  house;  they  founded  a  wholesale  liquor 
store,  and  from  it  wise  dealers  purchased  their  goods ; 
they  had  relations  with  three  different  law  firms,  and 
soon  every  seeker  of  justice,  from  the  public  service 


THE   DAY   OF    SOULS  79 

corporations,  the  Six  Companies  of  Chinatown  down 
to  the  street  drabs  and  Pie  gow  gamblers,  saw  the 
utility  of  retaining  firms  that  could  have  it  known, 
though  with  subtle  circumspection,  that  they  had 
peculiar  resources  in  getting  their  clients'  affairs  favor- 
ably before  the  departments  of  government,  the  police 
courts  and  the  superior  bench.  Under  Stillman,  the 
satrap,  the  tenderloin  vote  was  a  political  power, 
astutely  commercialized,  organized  for  tribute;  and 
from  every  source,  none  too  small  to  be  neglected, 
flowed  an  incalculable  revenue  to  those  Higher  Up; 
and  down  again,  rotting  through  the  social  fabric, 
flowed  a  portion  of  the  mighty  spoils.  Stillman,  the 
specialist  in  elaborating  the  night  life  of  the  town,  was 
answerable  to  none  save  the  boss  and  Barren  Chatom, 
the  attorney  for  the  railroad,  who  represented  in  the 
secret  government  of  the  city  the  big  money,  the  bribe- 
giving  boards  of  directors,  managers,  takers  of  profit, 
as  Stillman  did  the  liquor  men  and  the  gamblers  of 
the  track  and  the  "fight  combine;"  and  against  this 
power  nothing  in  the  city  could  stand.  Behind  Still- 
man's  smiling  camaraderie,  his  blithe  democracy  and 
power  with  men,  stood  the  vague  figures  of  the  secret 
rulers  of  the  town,  as  of  America,  the  money-getters. 
Stillman  looked  at  the  young  man  in  the  chair  across 
from  him,  talking  on  the  San  Franciscan's  ever-present 
topic  of  the  prize-ring  and  the  races,  before  he  dis- 
closed deeper  affairs. 

"Haven't  been  to  Sacramento  of  late?"  he  queried, 
at  length,  more  leisurely. 

"Not  since  the  session  began,"  answered  Arnold. 

Stillman  laughed  placidly.    John  Arnold  was  on  the 


8o  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

pay-rolls  of  the  state  of  California  at  six  dollars  a  day 
as  a  clerk  in  the  senate — but  he  had  not  been  near  the 
capital  except  to  be  sworn  in.  The  people  paid  for  his 
efficient  services  of  last  November  to  the  "push,"  in 
rather  good  measure. 

"You're  worth  something  better,  boy,"  resumed  the 
commissioner,  patting  his  paunch  with  breakfast  con- 
tent. "You  haven't  been  around  the  city  hall  much 
since  the  campaign — I've  been  in  shape  to  find  things 
for  you  several  times.  We've  been  pretty  good  friends, 
Ham." 

"Yes  ?"  said  Arnold  leisurely. 

"What  I'm  getting  at  is  this,"  continued  the  com- 
placent commissioner:  "there's  a  trick  to  be  turned 
that's  needed  badly.  Of  course  you  know  the  grand 
jury's  beginning  to  push  into  a  lot  of  things — 
McMahon  would  like  to  land  Weldy  on  this  registra- 
tion business — and  one  way  and  another  we  can't  con- 
trol 'em." 

"They  can't  get  Fred."  Arnold's  voice  was  indif- 
ferent. 

"They  can,"  retorted  the  commissioner  emphatically. 
"They'll  indict  him  to-morrow  for  fraudulent  registra- 
tion." 

The  younger  man  stared  incredulously.  Weldy, 
assemblyman  from  the  Fifty-Second,  was  his  friend. 
In  the  old  days,  when  his  father  was  going  down  in 
the  battle  of  millions  over  the  San  Joaquin  water  rights, 
Ham  used  to  go  every  night  from  the  court  room  to  the 
Star  printing  office,  where  Fred  Weldy  kicked  a  job 
press.  After  Selden  Arnold  was  convicted,  and  friends 
and  acquaintances  fell  away  from  the  felon's  son,  it  was 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  81 

Fred's  mother  who  offered  him  lodgings  in  an  obscure 
street;  and  when  he  returned  from  the  wars,  nursing 
the  bullet  he  got  through  a  leg  in  Samar,  it  was  the 
simple  old  woman  and  her  apprentice  son  who  took 
him  in  when  he  was  again  friendless  and  alone.  Two 
years  later  Arnold  got  the  union  printer  into  politics, 
brought  him  to  Stillman's  notice,  and  he  was  sent  to 
the  legislature,  wholly  untried  and  inexperienced  except 
for  the  two  months  in  the  registrar's  office  before  the 
primaries. 

Fred  was  somewhat  sheep-headed,  and  Arnold  had 
been  his  sponsor  in  his  brief,  uneventful  political  essay 
in  the  tenderloin  district.  But  Mother  Weldy  was 
proud  of  the  statesman ;  Arnold  had  met  her  only  the 
other  day  and  she  showed  him  her  new  hat  with  the 
shiny  black  cherries,  and  told  him  that  when  Fred  was 
governor  she  should  go  back  to  Bavaria  to  visit  the 
Grossinutter. 

"That's  the  rub,"  Stillman  was  resuming.  "I  can't 
shut  McMahon  off  and  he's  put  the  grand  jury  on 
Fred — he  was  so  sore  over  the  beating  he  got  in  the 
district.  And  it  happens  that  five  or  six  of  the  jurymen 
are  from  the  Fifty-Second  and  are  standing  with  Mac." 
The  commissioner  reached  to  a  memorandum  pad: 
"Selig,  O'Grady,  Brown — that's  the  coal  dealer  Brown, 
isn't  it? — Mayo  and  Landry."  He  rubbed  his  nose. 
"It's  a  tough  nut  to  crack.  You  know  the  registration 
was  a  little  raw  in  spots,  and  it's  certain  to  furnish  an 
indictment." 

"Can't  you  hold  the  jury?" 

"Not  in  the  Weldy  matter.  It's  McMahon's  per- 
sonal spite  to  indict  him.  And  we  want  him  badly  in 


82  THE   DAY   OF    SOULS 

the  legislature — the  anti-race-track  bill,  and  then — 
Well,  I  don't  mind  telling  you.  We're  behind  Chatom 
for  the  United  States  senate  next  year,  and  it'll  be  a 
scratch  fight.  We  can't  afford  to  have  Weldy  in- 
dicted." 

"No,"  said  Arnold,  "it  would  kill  his  mother." 

The  commissioner  looked  on  his  averted  face  with 
sudden  cunning. 

"It  would,"  he  answered  solemnly,  "and  that  would 
be  a  dirty  deal.  Weldy's  got  a  future — and  the  old 
lady's  proud  of  him."  It  was  the  first  time  Stillman 
had  heard  Fred  Weldy  had  a  mother. 

The  younger  man  sat  in  some  perplexity,  while  the 
little  square  leather  clock  on  Stillman's  desk  ticked 
with  business  haste. 

"It's  funny  about  these  jurors,"  Arnold  muttered. 
"Can't  they  be  held  in  line  ?  Of  course  I  don't  know, 
but  I  thought  you  had  a  drag." 

"Son,"  Stillman  leaned  to  him  and  tapped  his  knee, 
"they  wouldn't  touch  you  in  a  century — but  I  can't 
hold  them  on  Weldy.  That's  why  I'm  talking  to  you. 
You're  the  straightest  man  we've  got — everybody's 
your  friend  about  town.  Now,  Ham,  you  and  Fred 
were  the  two  clerks  who  passed  all  those  registration 
applicants  last  summer  about  whom  the  big  squeal  is  on, 
but  you  notice  that  your  name  is  never  brought  into  it, 
don't  you?  The  mayor  and  I  were  talking  about  you 
last  night.  We  decided  that  the  thing  to  do  is  to  have 
you  summoned  before  the  grand  jury  and  swear  that 
you  handled  all  those  registration  lists — all  on  the  day 
the  specified  instances  of  fraud  are  charged  against 
Fred." 


THE   DAY   OF    SOULS  83 

Arnold  sat  upright,  staring  at  the  other. 

"Great  and  glorious !"  he  said  at  length,  "you  don't 
want  much,  do  you?" 

"We  want  to  keep  Weldy  in  his  seat — we're  going 
to  need  him  badly." 

"And  I'm  to  commit  perjury?" 

"Jack,  we'll  guarantee  you  immunity.  We  can  swing 
the  grand  jury  in  your  case.  You  can  hold  men  that 
would  eat  Weldy.  I'll  deposit  ten  thousand  dollars  in 
any  bank  you  name  as  a  bond  and  a  wager  that  they 
won't  touch  you.  I  know  my  men !" 

"Harry,  I'm  out  of  politics.  Fve  done  a  lot  of  dirty 
work  for  you,  but  I  quit  last  night  for  good." 

The  commissioner  smiled.  Arnold's  face  was 
averted. 

"Well,  Fred  goes  over  the  road.  He'll  get  five  years 
on  every  count,  if  they  get  it  before  Judge  Ransome  or 
Dolan — and  they  will.  If  he's  indicted,  and  it  gets  into 
court,  I  throw  up  my  hands  and  leave  him — I  can't 
afford  to  stir  the  matter  further." 

Arnold  laughed  grimly.  "Sometime  the  lid  will  rip 
up  and  we'll  all  be  blown  to  hell !"  said  he.  "I  see  it 
coming." 

The  commissioner  sighed.  "Well,  here's  a  good  man 
— your  friend — going  in  stripes.  Fred  swears  by  you 
— he'll  take  your  word  now  when  I  couldn't  program 
him  a  minute." 

The  younger  man  rose  and  went  to  the  window  to 
stare  down  in  the  air  shaft.  He  was  thinking  of  Mrs. 
Weldy  and  the  way  the  shiny  black  cherries  had  nodded 
above  her  kindly  face ;  and  of  Fred — he  had  intended 
to  put  Fred  "right"  in  his  budding  career.  After  all 


84  THE   DAY   OF    SOULS 

Fred  had  done  little  of  the  registration ;  Ham,  himself, 
a  lieutenant  of  the  tenderloin  push,  had  sworn  in  the 
"floaters"  last  summer,  brazenly,  cynically — assured 
that  he  would  be  "protected" — that  this,  indeed,  was 
what  he  was  there  for.  Fred's  wrong-doing  in  the 
matter  had  been  a  mere  looking  on  and  grinning  at  the 
audacity  of  it  all — this  revelation  of  practical  politics 
at  the  city  hall. 

"Ham,  it's  safe  as  lying  in  bed/'  said  Stillman 
steadily.  "You  know  me — I  couldn't  operate  long  if 
my  word  wasn't  good  as  a  bond,  could  I  ?  Well,  I  say 
you'll  be  protected,  if  you  exonerate  Fred.  I  control 
enough  of  the  jurors  to  stop  the  investigation  right 
there.  And  you  keep  the  best  friend  you  ever  had  out 
of  state  prison." 

The  police  commissioner's  voice  had  the  emphasis 
of  truth.  Arnold  was  scratching  on  the  window  glass. 
Then  he  turned :  "Harry,  if  I  do  this  thing,  I'm  done 
for."  . 

"Ham,  you're  safe.  Boy,  I  can  put  behind  you 
bigger  things  than  you  ever  dreamed  of!" 

"I  wasn't  thinking  of  my  safety.  I'm  not  afraid  of 
any  indictments  by  that  grand  jury  push — but,  well,  I 
thought  I  was  out  of  it  all — I've  gone  pretty  deep,  but 
never  to  perjury." 

"It's  up  to  you  whether  or  not  Fred  goes  over  the 
bay.  I  tell  you,  we  daren't  make  any  fight  in  court  for 
him." 

"I'm  just  thinking,"  mused  the  other,  "what  I  ever 
got  out  of  this  game.  Harry,  you  put  me  into  politics. 
I  was  pretty  clean  until  you  got  me  to  working  in  the 
district,  and  I  only  started  it  to  help  my  old  man— 


THE   DAY   OF    SOULS  85 

because  you  said  you'd  see  that  that  pardon  of  his 
went  through.    That  was  three  years  ago." 

"Arnold,"  retorted  the  commissioner,  "turn  this 
trick  for  me  and  I'll  have  that  matter  before  the 
governor  in  forty-eight  hours." 

"You  will?" 

"You  know  the  man  who  can?    That's  Chatom." 

"Chatom?    He's  cold  as  death !" 

"Chatom  wants  Weldy  left  alone  for  that  senator- 
ship  fight  next  session.  Didn't  I  say  I  could  put  big- 
ger things  behind  you  than  you  ever  dreamed  of? 
Why,  boy,  come  out  of  your  daze !  Don't  you  see  it 
— don't  you  see?" 

Arnold  stirred  as  Stillman's  hand  struck  his  shoul- 
der. He  wheeled  in  the  revolving  chair  and  stared 
at  the  white  farther  wall  of  the  court.  In  the  outer 
office  he  heard  the  clicking  of  a  typewriter,  some- 
where else  the  muffled  drone  of  a  voice  dictating  to  a 
stenographer. 

"Seen  the  old  man  lately?"  Stillman's  cool  voice 
came  from  afar  to  his  thoughts. 

"Never  since  he  went  up.  He  made  me  promise 
never  to  see  him  in  the  pen." 

"Franey  was  at  San  Quentin  last  week.  He  said 
the  old  man  was  looking  pretty  worn  and  broken." 

Arnold's  thoughts  went  somberly  back  to  his  boy- 
hood, when  "the  old  man"  was  putting  in  the  great 
irrigation  works  that  ruined  him  in  the  San  Joaquin. 
Losing  his  mother  in  his  early  days,  an  oniy  child,  he 
had  grown  up  the  chum  of  Selden  Arnold,  the  daring 
operator  in  lands  and  development  schemes.  Many 
the  ride  the  small  boy  had  had  across  the  California 


86  THE   DAY   OF    SOULS 

hills  on  his  father's  saddle  horn,  while  they  watched 
the  big  ditches  dug  and  the  diverting  dams  and  head- 
gates  built.  And  "the  old  man"  must  be  worn  and 
broken  now — he  was  seventy-one,  and  a  proud,  high 
fighter  for  San  Quentin.  Ham  had  hoped  and  worked 
and  intrigued  three  years  for  the  day  when  he  should 
free  him — then  they  would  go  somewhere  and  begin 
anew. 

"Well,  boy,  what  do  you  think  of  it?" 

"Chatom  can  deliver  the  goods?" 

The  police  commissioner's  hand  went  to  the  desk 
telephone :  "We'll  go  see  him." 

"Never  mind,"  muttered  Arnold,  "I  know  he  can — 
that's  not  bothering  me." 

For  Sylvia's  face  rose  to  his  moody  imagination ;  he 
was  her  knight,  without  reproach ;  he  had  no  past  with 
her,  he  was  fair  and  stainless,  and  now  he  would  tell 
her  this — yes,  he  should  tell  her  this ! — an  unconquer- 
able revolt  came  to  him  when  he  whispered  that  he 
need  say  nothing,  he  could  marry  her  and  be  silent. 
No,  the  papers  would  have  it,  they  would  hound  him 
and  jeer;  they  might  even,  after  all,  indict  him  in  the 
grand  jury  room,  and  he  would  be  the  storm  center  at 
once  for  a  mighty  struggle,  for  the  old  order  was  break- 
ing. A  district  attorney  in  whom  the  organization  could 
not  trust  was  in  office  and  ambitious  for  a  record. 

And  at  once  Sylvia,  her  gray  eyes  filled  with  doubt, 
with  trouble  and  with  pain  was  before  him;  if  he  did 
this  act  he  was  in  the  net— they  had  him ;  he  was  again 
a  rounder  of  the  tenderloin,  a  story-teller  about  the 
bar-rooms,  an  idler  on  the  street  corners,  at  the  fight 
clubs  and  at  the  races;  and  when  the  time  came  he 


THE   DAY   OF    SOULS  87 

again  would  "do  politics"  for  his  master,  taking  the 
same  brazen,  defiant  chances,  heeding  nothing,  caring 
nothing. 

But  there  was  Fred  Weldy  who  had  always  been 
pretty  straight,  and  his  "old  man"  who  had  suffered 
overmuch  from  his  dogged  enemies. 

Arnold  wheeled  and  faced  Stillman.  "When's  this 
to  be  done  ?" 

"This  afternoon." 

"Whatf 

"I'll  see  that  you're  summoned — I  have  information 
of  every  move  they  make.  Our  men  in  the  grand  jury 
room  are  standing  pat.  I  want  you  to  go  before  them 
at  three  o'clock  this  afternoon  and  swear  that  you  were 
the  official  in  the  registrar's  office  on  August  the  sixth, 
last,  who  swore  in  the  twenty-two  voters  they  allege 
in  their  complaint  to  be  fraudulently  entered." 

The  young  man  looked  attentively  at  the  politician, 
who  smiled,  with  a  hand  upraised  at  the  door,  and  said : 
"Now,  don't  mix  in  that  push  at  the  city  hall,  and 
don't  mind  the  papers  and  the  threats  and  the  roars. 
I'll  put  everything  behind  you,  now — the  big  men,  the 
moneyed  interests,  the  railroad  that  wants  Chatom  in 
the  senate  and  can't  afford  to  lose  Weldy  in  the  next 
legislature — I  can  put  the  whole  damned  system  from 
here  to  Wall  Street  behind  you.  Stand  right,  and 
there's  nothing  can  break  you !" 

Arnold  nodded  and  left  with  a  smile.  On  the  street 
corner  without,  in  the  sunshine  and  the  rushing  life, 
he  paused,  his  lips  gray,  twitching,  and  tore  open  an 
envelope  he  took  from  his  pocket.  It  was  a  warrant  for 
one  hundred  and  sixty-eight  dollars  for  his  month's 


88  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

"services"  to  the  people  of  the  state  of  California  as 
a  senate  clerk.  He  smiled  again  over  the  paper. 

"Only  a  little,"  he  muttered,  "just  a  little  steal."  He 
looked  up  at  the  sunny  sky;  the  town  seemed  tamed 
and  dull,  the  buoyant  morning  gone.  "Well,"  he  mur- 
mured again,  in  a  sort  of  patient  relief,  "I  guess  it's 
best.  I  don't  love  her — it's  been  fine  this  morning,  but 
after  all,  I  don't  love  her.  This  lets  her  out.  Edith's 
right  and  Nel's  right.  I'll  buck  it  through  for  Fred 
and  the  old  man — but,  O,  little  girl !" 

Sylvia  met  him  in  the  parlors  of  the  great  store. 
They  boarded  a  car  for  the  Cliff,  and  he  was  quiet  and 
gentle,  even  more  than  she  had  ever  seen  him.  She  was 
radiant  in  the  cheerful  day;  pretty,  gracious,  pleased 
with  the  way  she  had  seemed  to  compromise  with  this 
large,  new  life.  A  resolve  to  be  tolerant  of  everything 
and  every  one;  to  see,  to  know,  to  live  to  the  full,  to 
be  the  woman — came  to  her.  In  the  crowded  store 
parlor  she  had  uttered  a  prayer,  as  she  listened  to  the 
clangor,  and  now  a  wonderful  happiness  had  enveloped 
her.  Everything  would  be  right  now.  She  had  given 
herself  to  this  man  and  his  life ;  she  would  glorify  both 
with  her  love. 

They  walked  along  the  sands  below  the  Cliff,  look- 
ing at  the  illimitable  Pacific,  the  flick  of  a  sail  in  the 
blue,  the  sun  warming  the  fresh  wind — who  couldn't 
be  happy  on  such  a  morning  ?  Presently  Arnold  smiled 
down  at  her  ingenuous  chatter.  He  packed  the  dry 
sand  in  a  heap  for  her  to  sit  on,  and  sat  by  her  hold- 
ing her  hand,  regardless  of  the  people  sunning  them- 
selves about. 

"I  never  saw  the  ocean  but  once  before,  and  that  was 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  89 

when  I  came  down  from  Humboldt.  And  when  we 
rode  over  the  long  trail  on  the  ridge  back  of  Little 
River,  Louisville  showed  it  to  me — just  a  tiny  blue 
over  the  great  redwoods  miles  away !  O,  it  was  beauti- 
ful— and,  I  thought  of  you!  You  didn't  come  to 
Trinity  by  the  coast,  did  you?  You  don't  know  how 
black  the  slashin's  look  after  the  fires,  and  how  big  the 
trees  are,  and  how  the  fog  hangs  low  in  the  canons  and 
the  green  hills  peer  through — everything's  so  big  it 
scares  one!" 

"But  that's  what  I  want.  I'd  like  to  own  a  hill,  clean 
and  big  and  high  in  the  north — little  girl,  wouldn't 
that  be  fine?" 

She  laughed.  From  his  pocket  she  took  the  marriage 
license,  stained  with  wine  and  marked  with  cat  tracks, 
and  opened  its  pleasing  width  on  her  lap.  "John  Ham- 
ilton Arnold,"  she  mocked,  "aged  twenty-nine,  and  a 
white  man !" 

"Not  now,"  he  muttered ;  "black  as  the  rim  of  hell !" 

She  started  at  his  tone. 

The  man  suddenly  sat  up  and  shook  the  sand  from 
his  sleeve  and  did  not  look  at  her.  Then  he  turned 
toward  her,  dropping  his  eyes  from  hers  to  the  mar- 
riage license  fluttering  in  the  wind  under  her  hand. 

"Sylvia,  do  you  know  what  you're  doing?  Do  you 
know  what  I  am?"  He  watched  now  a  wave  crest 
from  the  ocean  break  so  near  that  its  salt  spray  splashed 
the  sands  at  their  feet.  "I'm  a  rounder  in  the  tender- 
loin— nothing  else.  I'm  a  desperate  failure.  I  had  a 
chance  to  study  law  in  the  biggest  firm  in  this  town — 
I  studied  it  just  ten  months ;  I  had  a  chance  to  go  to 
college — I  went  just  eighteen  months ;  I  had  a  chance 


90  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

to  stick  at  music  with  this  voice  of  mine — and  I  threw 
it  away;  I  went  in  the  army  and  all  I  did  was  to  get 
shot  in  the  leg  by  some  Kackeyack.  I  came  back  to  this 
town,  and  what  have  I  been  since  ?  A  grafter,  a  hanger- 
on  of  the  worst  crowd  under  God's  sun.  Do  you 
realize  it?" 

"You  told  me  once  you  were  almost  a  gambler." 

"Yes,  I  tried  to  cut  in  with  a  book  at  Emeryville 
track — and  I  quit  broke.  Wally  Walters  and  I  wrote  a 
musical  burlesque  once  and  I  tried  to  land  it  on  O'Far- 
rell  Street — and  the  bunk  men  held  us  up." 

He  saw  she  was  puzzled  by  his  town  jargon.  "I 
mean  if  we'd  bribed  the  grafters  around  the  theater 
we'd  have  had  our  show  put  on.  I'm  just  telling  you 
all  this  to  have  you  see  what  I  live  in — the  cold,  fierce, 
dirty  game  it  is — and  this  is  only  the  least  of  it  all." 

"It  isn't  right,"  she  said  slowly.  "John,  you 
mustn't !" 

"Nothing's  right — it's  a  big  graft.  I  never  had  a 
man  come  to  me  with  a  straight  proposition  in  my  life. 
I  never  tried  to  spring  a  straight  game  myself  that 
some  crook  didn't  block  me."  He  poured  a  handful  of 
sand  into  his  hat.  She  saw  the  thin  curls  blow  about 
his  white  forehead.  "Kid,"  he  went  on,  "I  never  had 
anything  get  so  close  to  me  as  you  have — I  never 
wanted  to  be  square  so  badly  in  my  life  as  I  do  now." 

The  girl's  gray  eyes  filled ;  the  radiance  of  her  morn- 
ing was  dying. 

"I  guess  it's  'cause  you  love  me,"  she  whispered. 

He  stirred  restlessly. 

"Look  here.  Last  night  you  placed  ten  thousand  dol- 
lars in  my  hand  to  keep  for  you,  you  stayed  all  night 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  91 

in  my  rooms  alone.  You  simply  floor  me  with  your 
way  of  looking  at  things — and  trusting  me." 

"Why  not  ?"  she  said,  staring  at  him. 

"Sylvia,"  he  retorted,  "do  you  know  who  I  am? 
I'm  Seld  Arnold's  son." 

"Arnold?  Seld  Arnold?"  She  was  thinking  hard, 
then  she  started. 

"My  father's  in  San  Quentin.  You  must  have  heard 
of  the  big  case  in  the  San  Joaquin.  All  the  farmers 
hate  him — he  financed  the  big  irrigation  works  and 
when  the  crash  came  a  lot  of  them  were  ruined.  The 
railroad  smashed  him  because  he  supported  Pennoyer 
for  governor — the  public  doesn't  really  know,  but  that 
was  it.  They  won  his  financial  backers  away,  and  then 
the  old  man  did  a  foolish  thing." 

She  looked  away  at  the  sea ;  a  tremulous  twitch  of 
her  chin  was  all  that  he  saw  of  her  suffering. 

"I  know,  now.  I  was  a  little  girl,  but  I  remember. 
My  father  lived  there  then  and — he  lost  everything — 
church  and  all.  We  moved  to  Trinity  and  took  up  some 
timber  land." 

"Well,  we  did  it — we  ruined  half  that  country." 

The  girl  rose  on  one  knee  in  the  sand,  looking  in- 
tently at  his  somber  face.  A  slow  mischief  came  into 
her  eyes ;  she  half  crept  toward  him  and  then  she 
leaped  against  his  shoulder,  her  firm  arms  about  his 
neck,  her  clean  breath  on  his  cheek.  Laughing,  she 
kissed  him  again  and  again,  overwhelming  him  with 
her  belief  in  him,  her  trust  and  love  of  him.  The  pass- 
ers on  the  sand,  the  carriage  people  on  the  Cliff  drive, 
looked  on  them  amused. 

He  was  confusedly  trying  to  put  her  back.   "Don't, 


92  THE  DAY  OF   SOULS 

little  girl— don't!"  he  whispered.  "Let  me  tell  you — 
let  me  explain — " 

"What  do  we  care?"  she  cried  joyously.  "Suppose 
your  father  is  in  prison,  and  suppose  he  did  ruin  mine  ? 
O,  we're  young  and  free,  and  that  was  long  ago !" 

"But  that  isn't  it.  No,  you'll  have  to  know." 

His  face  made  her  draw  back;  her  laughing  eyes 
shrank  from  his  steadiness ;  she  sat  on  her  heels  in  the 
sand. 

"What  do  you  mean,  John?  Isn't  it  all  right?" 

"I  told  you  the  kind  of  man  I  am.  I  was  square, 
wasn't  I?" 

"Well,  I  guess  you  told  me  most  the  worst  and  I 
forgave  you !" 

"There  are  some  things  I  can't  tell.  The  whole  town 
would  smile  if  I  tried  to  explain  that  you  were  straight 
after  you  had  stayed  at  my  place  last  night,  but  no 
matter.  I've  been  square." 

She  sat  staring  doubtfully  at  him.  The  silence  grew 
long.  He  dug  his  fingers  into  the  sand  and  poured  it 
in  a  little  yellow  stream  from  one  hand  to  the  other. 
Without  looking  at  the  girl  who  was  trying  to  put  back 
the  straying  hair  from  her  ears,  he  resumed. 

"I  can  see  it  all,  now — I  can  look  ahead  to  all  my 
life.  Sylvia,  I  brought  you  here  to  tell  you — I  wouldn't 
have  you  in  it  for  anything !" 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Hadn't  we  better  go  back  to  town?"  he  evaded. 
"Haven't  you  some  friends  you  can  stay  with  to- 
night?" 

"To-night?  What  do  you  mean,  John?"  She  looked 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  93 

at  him  in  an  inexplicable  horror  now.  His  stern  face 
was  not  averted,  steadfastly  he  dared  look  at  her. 

"Sylvia,  here's  your  money — every  cent.  That's  all 
I  was  after.  I  was  just  playing  you — that's  all." 

She  could  not  answer,  she  could  not  look  at  him. 

"But  aren't  you— aren't  we — " 

He  took  the  need  of  speech  from  her,  gently,  as  if 
to  shelter  her. 

"I'm  done  for — that's  all.  And  I'm  glad — for  it  gave 
me  a  chance  to  be  square  with  you.  Little  girl,  it's  for 
your  good — the  simple,  honest  soul  in  you.  I'm  not 
going  to  marry  you,  Sylvia.  I  don't  love  you." 

The  girl  rose.  Slowly  she  faced  the  keen  sea-north. 
There  the  redwood  forests  were,  the  gloom  of  the  hills, 
the  silent  places.  She  looked  into  the  wind  over  the 
ocean,  trying  to  fasten  back  the  wayward  brown  hair 
blowing  about  her  face.  She  turned  to  the  east,  and 
there  the  city  lay  under  a  dun  cloud,  the  brute  town 
from  which,  for  twenty  hours,  his  arms  had  sheltered 
her.  Now —  Never  had  she  been  so  lonely.  She  had 
not  dreamed  that  any  one  could  be  so  sad,  the  wind  so 
chill,  the  world  so  desolate.  Mute  and  dry-eyed,  she 
faced  again  the  northern  sea. 

"It  came  over  me  this  morning,"  he  went  on  slowly. 
"I  saw  how  I  had  treated  you.  Yes,  it  must  be  that 
something  awoke  in  me — I  saw  so  clearly." 

"Something  awoke  in  you,"  she  whispered.  "Your 
soul,  I  guess." 

He  looked  at  her  for  a  time;  it  seemed  some  tre- 
mendous hope  was  rising  in  him,  and  then  he  went  on 
quietly. 

"No;  I  just  want  to  be  square  somewhere.  There're 


94  THE   DAY   OF    SOULS 

not  many  things  where  I've  a  chance,  but  I  wanted  one, 
and  that  was  you.  Maybe  there's  a  God  who  watches 
and  believes — maybe  He'll  understand  how  a  fellow 
wanted  to  get  back  and  couldn't ;  how,  maybe,  he  found 
his  soul  but  it  was  asleep,  and  while  he  shook  it  and 
cursed  it  and  smashed  it,  it  wouldn't  waken.  Maybe, 
if  there's  a  God,  He  knows.  I  couldn't  make  anybody 
else  understand." 

"Don't/'  she  whispered,  but  he  went  on  slowly  as 
before. 

"Well,  with  you  I  did  my  best — or  worst.  I  can't  tell 
which.  Only  it  seems  like  I  must  warn  you  off.  I'd 
rather  do  that  now,  Sylvia,  than  sometime  have  you 
look  at  me  and  know  and  feel — when  it  was  too  late — " 

"Yes,"  she  had  a  strange  pathos  of  faith  in  the  look 
she  gave  him,  "I  know.  Something's  fighting  in  you — 
your  soul — and  there  is  a  God — yes,  a  God  who  cares. 
Else  you  wouldn't  care,  I  tell  you;  else  you'd  never 
care  to  save  me.  Yes — you've  a  soul  and  it's  trying." 

"Perhaps,"  he  muttered,  "and  perhaps  there's  the 
God  you  pray  to.  But  I  never  have  believed — I've 
never  cared." 

"Believe  now,"  she  answered.  "You're  leaving  me, 
and  I'm  only  asking  that, — believe  and  try,  O,  try !" 

He  looked  on  her  in  such  dumb  wonder  out  of  his 
misery  that  at  last  her  tears  were  falling  that  he  could 
be  so  stricken  and  so  still. 

"Let's  go,"  she  whispered,  and  checked  the  sob. 
"But  there's  God  who  cares,  and  I'm  caring  always; 
and  you  can  believe  and  you  can  try  all  your  life  long. 
Now,  come,"  she  added.  And  then,  as  they  went  along 
toward  the  hotel  overhanging  the  ocean  rocks,  Arnold 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  95 

silent  in  bewilderment,  she  cried  out,  as  if  in  joy :  "And 
I've  made  you  better,  and  you  can't  forget !" 

Within  the  dining-room  she  paused  by  a  small  table, 
laying  down  her  gloves  and  the  little  silken  case  which 
held  the  money  he  had  that  morning  withdrawn  from 
the  Maplewood  and  given  back  to  her.  "I  think  I'll 
fix  my  hair,"  she  said.  "It's  all  blowy." 

And  again,  with  wonder  at  her  gentleness,  he 
watched  her  go  to  the  dressing-ropm.  He  tried  to  cry 
out  and  it  was  a  mutter :  "God  cares !"  and  he  repeated 
it  not  knowing  what  he  said :  "God  cares — God  cares !" 

A  waiter  smoothed  the  cloth  and  set  the  silver,  while 
Arnold  stared  down  the  sun  brilliance  on  the  wet 
coast  leagues  to  where  the  California  mountains  rose, 
a  blue  barrier. 

"I  did  it  wrong,"  he  muttered.  "She  doesn't  under- 
stand. I  told  it  wrong,  somehow — somewhere." 

The  seals  on  the  ancient  rocks  barked  in  silly 
bravado ;  on  the  drive  the  carriage  wheels  glittered ;  on 
the  beach  children  shouted.  The  young  man  saw  one, 
bare-legged  in  the  winter  wind,  sturdily  tugging  at  its 
pail  of  sand,  and  wondered  if  it  was  not  cold ;  he,  him- 
self, shivered  in  the  draft  down  the  corridor.  Then  he 
glanced  at  his  watch — she  had  been  gone  eight  min- 
utes. He  waved  away  the  approaching  waiter.  Look- 
ing down  the  cliff,  he  saw  some  men  on  a  pinnacle 
gesticulating  and  pointing  at  the  seething  whirlpools 
at  its  base.  From  a  window  below  him  a  man's  bald 
head  protruded ;  he,  too,  was  gesturing.  In  the  yeasty 
waves  plunging  among  the  rocks  eighty  feet  below,  a 
blue  drenched  object  was  boiled  up  and  sucked  under. 

He  dashed  up  in  a  swift  fear,  staring  out  in  the  sun- 


96  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

radiant  net  of  spray  hiding  the  caverns.  But  it  was  a 
bit  of  flotsam  of  the  sea.  Then  he  whirled  about  at  a 
touch,  with  a  face  ashy  as  the  rocks.  A  small  tightly- 
bottoned  boy,  who  sold  cigars  about  the  tables,  held  a 
paper  to  him. 

"Table  seven/'  he  said,  "single  gent — it's  you.  Lady 
gave  me  this  for  you.  She  took  a  car." 

"Car?  Did  you  see  her  take  the  car?" 

"Yes,  sir.  Blue  car.  Haight  Street  line,  ten  minutes 
ago.  She  told  me  to  wait  that  long." 

Arnold  took  the  note.  Below  the  ornate  letter-head 
of  the  hotel  was  written  in  Sylvia's  girlish  hand : 

DEAR  JOHN — I  can't  understand,  but  never  mind.  I 
believed  in  you  always  and  I  prayed.  If  you  don't  love 
me,  it's  all  right.  I  told  you  there's  a  God  to  under- 
stand. And  I  won't  take  the  money.  I've  more,  and 
maybe  this  will  help  you  through  it  all.  You've  always 
been  fine  to  me,  and  I'm  all  right.  I'm  thinking  about 
home — but  it's  lonely  in  the  country-up-in-back. 

Always,  SYLVIA. 

At  ten  o'clock  that  night  Arnold  wandered  into  the 
Maplewood  saloon.  His  face  was  flushed,  his  eyes 
sparkled  alertly,  shooting  nervous  glances  at  the  hab- 
itues, but  he  spoke  to  none.  Ferreri  idled  over  the  bar ; 
he  was  ignored.  Cronies  spoke  curiously  to  him;  a 
buzz  of  comment  followed  him  as  he  passed  to  the  rear 
of  the  establishment  under  the  blaze  of  the  electric 
lights.  He  went  along  the  passage  by  the  gold  room, 
famous  for  its  political  conferences,  to  the  tapestried 
corridor  by  the  curtained  boxes.  At  the  farther  end  of 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  97 

the  passage,  near  the  ball-room,  he  leaned  unsteadily 
aside  to  allow  the  exit  of  a  waiter,  and  then,  being 
under  a  light,  he  mechanically  drew  an  evening  paper 
from  his  pocket.  In  the  course  of  a  two-column  story, 
pungently  satiric,  on  the  current  investigation  into 
scandals  affecting  the  municipal  government,  was  a 
paragraph  which  Arnold  folded  over.  It  read: 

"Another  witness  before  the  grand  jury  this  after- 
noon, was  J.  H.  Arnold,  formerly  clerk  of  registry 
under  Blasingham.  It  is  alleged  that  Arnold's  testi- 
mony directly  refuted  the  evidence  that  has  gone  to 
show  Assemblyman  Weldy's  connection  with  the  fraud- 
ulent registration.  The  former  registry  clerk  swore 
that  he  alone  was  on  duty  when  the  registrations  cited 
in  the  evidence  as  illegally  entered,  were  sworn  in, 
and  further,  that  they  were  regular  registrations.  Ar- 
nold was  defiant  in  the  extreme  in  giving  his  testimony, 
relying  on  a  well-established  pull  to  protect  him,  but 
it  is  said  further  investigations  may  result  in  his  in- 
dictment for  perjury." 

About  each  green-paneled  polished  wall  of  the  danc- 
ing-room, on  a  border  of  carpet,  were  small  tables,  and 
though  the  hour  was  early  the  place  was  well  filled. 
Through  the  smoke  and  above  the  voices,  the  idling 
notes  of  a  piano  strayed.  A  woman  in  one  of  the  groups 
at  the  tables — a  magnificent  creature  with  a  regal  yet 
merry  face,  a  "coon  shouter"  of  the  music-halls — was 
humming,  though  her  velvety  contralto  raised  it  to 
more  than  this,  an  aria  from  Rigoletto. 

"La  Donna  e  Mob-il-e"  she  sang  and  then  smiled 


98  THE   DAY   OF    SOULS 

languorously  to  Arnold.  They  had  been  together  in 
the  chorus  of  the  Tivoli  opera  in  the  days  of  Colla- 
marini;  she  knew  him  as  all  the  women  of  the  night 
knew  him— as  they  turned  on  street  and  in  cafe  to  look 
at  him,  the  penniless  jester  who  gave  them  nothing  save 
his  friend's  smile. 

"I  heard  Arnold  had  married  a  million,"  put  in  her 
companion,  a  diminutive  jocky  of  the  Santa  Anita 
stables.  "He  ought  to  make  good,  that  guy ;  the  whole 
town's  open  to  him  everywhere." 

The  "coon  shouter"  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "La 
Donna  e  Mob-il-e"  she  hummed,  and  then,  because 
Wally  Walters  at  the  piano  fingered  the  bars  of  a  senti- 
mental refrain,  her  purring  contralto  followed : 

"Where  the  Blue  Hills  rise 
'Neath  the  sunny  skies — " 

The  young  man  who  had  been  coming  toward  the 
singer,  turned  to  a  side  door.  When  this  again  opened, 
the  woman,  indolently  slurring  her  song,  saw  him,  his 
face  to  the  north,  watching  the  stars  above  the  city 
hills. 


CHAPTER  V 

Kearny  Street — in  Old  San  Francisco,  now  for 
ever  gone — began  at  Lotta's  Fountain  in  the  city's 
heart  and  ended  in  a  cliff  tumbling  to  the  sea.  Within 
this  mile  and  a  half  was  the  most  cosmopolitan  life  ever 
packed  along  an  equal  thoroughfare  on  the  world's  face. 
Every  type,  vocation,  business,  there  found  standing 
and  shelter,  from  the  carriage  rich,  shopping  at  one 
end  of  the  street,  to  a  huddle  of  Basque  shepherds, 
down  from  the  Sierra  to  escape  the  October  snows, 
idling  winter-long  in  the  windowless  wine-shops,  at 
the  other ;  from  the  making  of  a  great  newspaper  to  a 
Mexican  peon  braiding  horsehair  riatas.  Every  race  of 
Asia — Japanese,  Chinese,  Coreans,  Burmans,  Hindoos, 
Russians;  peoples  from  all  Polynesia — Filipinos,  Ma- 
lays, Kanakas,  Aleuts ;  from  the  nameless  ports  of  the 
South  Seas;  from  every  port  of  Europe,  Hammerfest 
to  the  JEgean  Isles;  from  Africa,  refugee  Boers  and 
blacks ;  from  every  turbulent  republic  of  the  Americas 
— the  complex,  hybrid,  New  World  type  in  its  evolu- 
tion, Latin,  Celt,  Anglos  and  Northmen,  mingling  but 
not  mixing  with  the  racially  triumphant  Mongol — all, 
and  in  numbers  so  proportionably  equable  that  no  one 
element  drowned  the  other,  here  lived  and  bartered  or 
sojourned  from  the  shipping  tributary  to  this  eddy  of 
the  world  stream. 

99 


ioo  THE   DAY   OF    SOULS 

At  one  end  of  Kearny,  money  rings,  cabals  of  poli- 
ticians, controllers  of  the  state's  affairs,  makers  of  a 
people's  thought ;  at  the  other,  Cantonese  peddlers  hag- 
gling with  Tuscan  fishermen  over  the  White  Devil's 
nickel,  each  howling  at  the  other  in  an  alien  but  com- 
mon tongue.  Christian  churches  of  every  type ;  a  tem- 
ple of  Greek  Byzantine,  a  shrine  of  Buddha,  a  housetop 
where  the  Mussulman  faced  the  east,  an  alley  cellar 
where  a  Polynesian  sailor  groveled  to  his  idol  of  clay 
— all  faiths  were  there,  and  all  unbeliefs,  from  the 
oriental  acceptance  of  fate  to  the  uncertain  philosophy 
of  the  occidental  agnostic;  and  over  and  about  the 
clamor  and  the  complacence,  shrill  and  acrid  with  false 
brasses  and  bleating  reeds,  the  commercial  snarl  of 
Asia  drowned  the  others  with  its  myriad  josses  ob- 
scured by  blue  punk  smoke  and  silk-gowned,  money- 
changing  priests. 

The  great,  the  rich,  the  downtrodden,  the  namelessly 
foul,  all  lived  in  the  sixteen  blocks  from  the  fountain 
to  the  bay  ;  all  businesses  from  tawdry  foreign  shops  to 
the  emporiums  of  merchant  princes  whose  doors  ad- 
vertised that  seven  languages  were  spoken  within; 
cafes  for  every  purse,  from  the  exclusives  and  the  race- 
track idlers  drinking  champagne  at  a  table  fifteen  floors 
above  the  street  to  the  windowless,  basement  wine- 
shops of  Telegraph  Hill ;  all  vices,  for  here  the  hoary 
iniquity  of  the  Middle  Kingdom  and  the  Sea  Islands 
traded  namelessly  with  the  wickednesses  that  the  West 
had  brought  down  from  Sodom  and  Babylon ;  and  the 
morphine  fiends  lolling  about  the  Stevenson  monument 
in  Portsmouth  Square,  leered  across  at  the  venal  jus- 
tice of  the  city  courts ;  the  dragon  flags  of  the  Chinese 


THE  DAY   OF   SOULS  101 

roofs  mocked  the  foresworn  ideality  of  the  Mount  and 
Magna  Charta. 

And  into  this  glut  of  alien  life  the  white  race  poured 
all  that  was  picturesque,  bizarre,  inordinate,  from  the 
Rio  Grande  to  Great  Slave  Lake ;  all  that  the  defiant 
young  West  could  enrich  and  send  to  rot  and  revel  in 
the  port.  Miners  from  Tanana,  Pelly,  Amargosa  and 
the  spaces  of  Death  Valley  and  Nevada ;  cowboys  from 
the  Inyo  deserts  and  Arizona,  Utah  and  Montana; 
lumberjacks  from  California  valleys  as  little  known  as 
the  fastnesses  of  Thibet ;  soldiers  from  every  post  be- 
tween the  two  frontiers, — lithe  men  with  burned,  lean 
faces,  the  scuff  of  a  panther's  footpads  in  the  nervous 
spring  of  their  heels,  ready  with  life,  eager  for  play  in 
the  ingenuous,  shrewd  humor  of  the  American. 

Old  San  Francisco  was  as  inevitable  to  the  dweller 
beyond  the  Rockies  as  God  to  Mahomet;  the  very 
phrase  with  which  it  was  summed  spoke  that — any- 
where over  the  range  it  was  "The  City."  That  meant 
no  place  on  earth  but  the  gray  town,  prematurely 
wrinkled,  like  a  woman  in  whom  youth's  excesses  too 
long  burned,  which  huddled  on  a  point  of  sand, 
scourged  with  winds,  racked  by  fogs,  scintillant  with 
dust  motes  in  the  cold  sunshine,  where  lived  the  most 
cheerful  people  in  the  world;  where  now  the  gayest 
courage  in  the  world  serenely  builds. 

Old  San  Francisco  was  fashioned  by  the  weather 
and  a  two-bit  piece.  The  climate  forbade  the  roseate 
dalliances  of  youth,  moonlight  sittings,  twilight 
porches,  trysts  of  summer  nights ;  year-long  after  sun- 
set the  guerilla  trades  fogs  harried  the  bleak  suburbs, 
routing  the  dwellers  so  that  they  fled  to  the  down-town 


102  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

and  under  the  arc-lights  defied  the  somber  sky.  The 
blatant  Pacific  drove  them  to  their  lubricity;  they  in- 
vented a  prodigality  of  meat,  light  and  music  for  two- 
bits  that  no  man  might  lack  cheer,  and  being  a  home- 
less people  of  brave  wit, 'an  ingenious  people  of  mad 
individualism,  dwellers  in  a  town  of  superlatives,  gild- 
ing the  common  with  a  defying  genius,  on  the  opti- 
mistic two-bits  they  reared  a  method  of  life  artistically 
unique,  hectically  materialistic,  astonishingly  brilliant, 
and  most  potently  human — which  last  at  once  explains 
Old  San  Francisco.  Nothing  was  bad  to  the  gray  city 
that  offered  a  pretext  for  dining;  nothing  could  be 
good  that  forbade  fellowship.  It  lived,  loved  and  died 
in  the  radiance  of  its  gorgeous,  labyrinthine  cafes, 
laughing  with  its  merry  mistresses,  though  the  bread 
be  stale,  the  wine  raw  and  the  jewel  on  her  finger  a 
bit  of  glass.  It  had  no  patience  with  a  virtue  that  would 
not  feast  with  it,  jest  with  it,  forget  with  it  in  its  curi- 
ously child-like  amourousness ;  but  with  an  under- 
standing heart  the  Ten  Laws  might  have  sat  with  the 
harlot  and  been  illumined. 

Through  the  sunny  morning  tide  of  Kearny  Street 
at  ten  o'clock,  Arnold  came  to  Portsmouth  Square  near 
the  golden  galleon  of  the  Robert  Louis  Stevenson 
fountain.  He  was  gently  drunk  and  the  air  was  cool 
after  the  night.  When  he  reached  Fish  Alley  among 
the  squawking  Chinese  vendors,  he  debated  for  a  time 
— and  went  on  up  the  hill ;  he  had  forgotten  something, 
or  wanted  something — he  could  not  remember  which. 

Miss  Cranberry  was  sweeping  down  the  front  stairs 
of  her  lodgings  between  the  Family  Liquor  Store  front 
and  the  lace  curtained  door  of  Sedaini's;  she  paused 


THE   DAY   OF    SOULS  103 

a  moment  in  the  fresh  morning  to  evade  the  dust 
skurry  she  had  raised  and  looked  about.  The  street 
was  still,  save  for  the  children  at  play  in  Happy  Alley. 
The  old  woman  went  to  the  lamp-post  to  beat  the  dust 
from  the  mat,  and  now  discovered  her  chief  lodger 
half-way  up  the  outside  stairs  to  the  balcony. 

"Why,  good  morning,  Mr.  Hammy!"  she  cried. 
"And  so  you  slipped  away  and  were  married  on  the 
sly !  We  waited  for  you  the  whole  evening — Majy 
and  Sammy  and  that  big  man  from  the  woods.  He  was 
disappointed,  for  he  must  go  North  to-day.  How's  the 
bride?" 

"Well,"  said  Arnold,  in  the  illogic  of  liquor.  "Every- 
thing's all  right,  Granny — and  I  want  to  get  in — find 
a  handkerchief." 

"Why,  your  rooms  are  open,"  she  answered,  aston- 
ished, and  came  nearer. 

"Of  course,"  retorted  he,  and  retreated  upward.  She 
came  to  sweep  the  porch.  He  was  fumbling  in  the  lit- 
ter on  his  dresser.  She  blinked  at  the  mud  on  his  pat- 
ent leathers  and  on  his  trousers,  much  perplexed  and 
wishing  to  question  him,  but  his  mood  did  not  invite. 

"The  dear  heart — the  dear  heart — "  began  Miss 
Granny.  "I  suppose  you  kept  her  at  the  Palace?  You 
are  thinking  of  a  trip,  Mr.  Hammy?" 

"Trip? — O,  yes — trip!"  He  was  plunging  about 
among  tentative  deceits,  his  dulled  brain  hopeless  of 
explanation.  "It's  all  right,  and  don't  you  worry.  And 
maybe  we — won't  return  to-night,  Granny." 

And  he  backed  away,  warily  watching  her  as  she 
gaped  in  wonder  at  him,  unguessing  his  plight.  All 
night  he  had  been  about  numberless  resorts,  now 


104  THE   DAY   OF    SOULS 

staring  vacantly  at  his  companions,  now  arguing  bril- 
liantly on  a  multitude  of  matters.  With  a  mutter  to  the 
old  woman's  perplexity  he  gained  the  street  and  then 
Portsmouth  Square,  where  he  paused  to  see  a  group  of 
pudgy  Chinese  infants  playing  with  an  abject  dog  un- 
der the  acacias.  It  was  the  lavender  pup  from  the 
country-up-in-back,  and  to  him  it  slunk,  dragging  a 
length  of  ragged  rope  by  which  the  woodsman  had 
tied  it  to  Granny's  balcony. 

The  drunken  man  lifted  the  clumsy  brute ;  he  gave 
a  dime  to  a  squat  Chinese  boy  in  a  head-dress  of  gilt 
and  pink  and  with  dirty  flowered  trousers,  and  an- 
other to  Yet  Kai,  the  opium  pipe  mender,  senile  and 
toothless,  standing  by,  as  a  reward  for  some  sort  of  con- 
structive rescue  of  the  country  dog,  and  then  went  on, 
gravely  wiping  its  muddy  feet  with  the  clean  handker- 
chief he  had  found  at  his  rooms. 

"Old  lad,"  he  murmured,  "stick  by  me.  I  want  you, 
pup — I  need  you.  Just  be  square  with  me,  lad,  and 
you'll  wear  diamonds." 

The  pup  cringed,  he  was  forlorn,  friendless,  and  that 
was  not  right  this  pleasing  morning  in  Ham's  eyes.  He 
paid  fifteen  cents  for  some  meat  scraps  at  Coffee  John's 
and  then,  after  the  pup's  hurried,  furtive-eyed  mastica- 
tion, the  adventurers  went  on.  Arnold  spent  a  roving 
hour  on  Kearny  Street.  Being  hungry  he  ate,  and  re- 
membrance reasserting,  he  drank  deep  and  often.  By 
noon  he  had  driven  the  little  stings  from  his  brain,  the 
qualms  from  his  stomach,  the  weariness  from  his  legs. 
A  brimming  cheeriness  seized  him  to  be  out  among 
such  rushing  people  in  the  sun  with  no  care,  and  the 
pup  to  amuse  him.  At  bar  after  bar  he  took  the  em- 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  105 

purpled  pup  from  under  his  coat  and  set  it  on  the  wood 
and  drew  a  laughing  coterie  with  his  recital  of  the 
woodman's  story — the  dog  that  wouldn't  be  boiled. 
But  ever,  when  the  crowds  had  grown  and  the  laugh- 
ing was  at  its  best,  the  jester  withdrew,  mordant  and 
alone,  fought  his  way  through  the  streets  alone,  fled 
as  one  haunted  from  the  revelry  he  evoked.  From  the 
last  foray  he  crossed  Lotta's  Fountain  to  the  Chronicle 
corner  and  came  on  Angelo  Polacchi  behind  a 
clothes-basket  of  violets  and  flanked  with  chrysanthe- 
mums, so  that  Angelo's  Italian  eyes  shone  from  a 
flower  bank,  for  all  the  world  like  a  manikin  in  the 
centerpiece  of  a  rich  man's  table. 

Angelo  sold  flowers  for  Pietro  Scifoni,  whose  wagon 
rumbled  in  every  morning  from  the  San  Mateo  road ; 
he  was  always  delighted  when  Arnold  appeared,  for 
the  young  man  never  failed  to  hail  him  fraternally,  buy 
violets,  give  treble  the  price,  and  display  to  all  the  curb 
vendors  that  Angelo  was  the  protege  of  a  most  great 
man,  a  "politico" — yes,  surely  a  great  man  and  rich, 
for  did  not  Angelo  get  two-bits  for  himself,  as  well  as 
selling  Pietro's  posies  ? 

Angelo  was  so  buffeted  about  by  sweetness  that  Ar- 
nold could  not  twig  his  ear  as  was  customary,  but  he 
bought  a  whole  armful  of  yellow  chrysanthemums,  re- 
warded the  boys  on  either  side  of  the  favored  one  as 
well,  hailed  Pietro,  Giuseppe,  Old  Soldi,  each  by  name 
and  with  inelegant  merriment,  and  then  suddenly  dis- 
covered that  a  laughing  group  was  about  him,  and  that 
he  had  hung  a  chrysanthemum  wreath  about  his  own 
neck.  That  was  funny  and  yet — well,  it  was  all  right, 
and  he  laughed  with  the  joyous  morning  people. 


io6  THE  DAY   OF   SOULS 

So  Mr.  Arnold  gained  Market  Street  with  distinct 
self-approval — it  was  right  and  logical  enough  to  dis- 
turb the  flower  market;  the  sun  was  fine,  the  day 
young.  He  drifted  on  with  his  chrysanthemums,  and 
at  noon  was  in  the  Maplewood  cafe  where  he  made  the 
pup  lunch  dismally  on  terrapin,  while  he  went  behind 
the  bar  to  instruct  Fergy  in  compounding  a  "granite 
face." 

And  presently  he  had  a  group  of  cronies  about  him, 
Mannie  Murasky  and  Louis  Ferreri  and  a  prize-fight 
promoter  with  a  Sonoreno  bull-fighter  in  tow,  and 
others,  all  chaffing  and  laughing — young  men  in  the 
democracy  of  the  street,  from  a  newsboy  tipster  of  the 
races  to  Watt  Chatom,  son  of  the  railroad  attorney, 
who  had,  that  morning,  charged  in  from  his  great 
wheat  ranches  of  the  San  Joaquin  in  his  ninety-horse- 
power car,  mud-covered,  cursing  the  roads  and  boast- 
ing alternately  of  his  racing  stud  and  his  drubbing  of 
a  recalcitrant  ditch-tender  on  his  Tuolumne  irrigation 
canals. 

"Hello,  J.  Ham !"  shouted  the  rich  man's  son,  flushed 
from  heavy  eating  and  drinking  and  the  night's  riding 
through  the  keen  hill  air.  "Hear  you've  struck  money 
again.  Well,  here's  another  good  thing  fattening  up  at 
the  track — "  he  looked  about  and  pulled  Arnold  aside, 
"Corsair — let  me  put  you  right." 

And  though  feverish  youths  hung  about  crazy  to 
hear  this  racing  talk  from  two  men  who  were  "close" 
to  the  wise  people,  Watt  Chatom  and  Arnold  separated 
with  a  knowing  laugh.  Mannie  meantime  had  gathered 
a  retinue  which  all  day  ate  and  drank  at  Arnold's  ex- 
pense, worthless  young  men  whom  Ham  did  not  know 


THE   DAY   OF    SOULS  107 

by  name,  but  who  knew  him  and  felt  now  a  cocky  im- 
portance to  be  treated  by  Ham  Arnold,  the  notorious, 
who  even  yesterday  had  had  his  name  in  the  papers 
as  the  defiant  forefront  figure  of  all  the  blaze  of  evil 
life  that  encompassed  the  city,  who  stood  forth  to  all 
the  Street  as  the  symbol  of  the  after-midnight,  its  jester 
and  its  jest. 

At  six  o'clock  Louis  Ferreri  descended  from  his 
machine  on  Market  Street  and  found  them  before  the 
Richelieu,  Mannie  clamorous  to  dine  at  Marchand's. 
He  knew  a  ten-twent'-thirt'  vaudeville  actress  who  was 
to  be  there  to-night  and  was  anxious  that  she  should 
see  him  traveling  with  a  spender  like  J.  Ham  Arnold. 
But  Ferreri  took  the  host  aside. 

"Shake  that  bunch,"  he  cautioned.  "What' s  the  mat- 
ter with  you  ?  Where's  the  girl  ?" 

Arnold  smiled  in  high  serenity.  "Never  mind. 
You'll  have  to  loosen  if  you  travel  with  me.  Let's  kick 
into  Marchand's  and  see  that  looker  that  Mannie  is 
touting  so  strong." 

But  Louis  protested.  No  girls  for  him — no,  sir! 
Once  at  the  Woodmans'  picnic  at  San  Jose  he  had  a 
topaz  ring  and  he  met  a  girl,  and — well,  no  more  girls 
for  Louis !  It  was  all  right  for  J.  Ham  Arnold.  Ham 
could  stroll  into  a  cafe,  nod  to  the  house,  sing  a  snatch 
of  The  Rosary,  or  Always,  and  drift  on  down  the  line. 
There  was  nothing  for  him  to  pay  nor  a  crook  to  rob 
him,  the  girls  looking  back  at  him — but  Louis? 

Well,  once  he  had  a  topaz  ring — 

Arnold  split  the  argument — they  would  dine  at  San- 
guinetti's,  for  he  wanted  a  place  where  the  pup  would 
be  de  riguer.  That  was  the  word  he  used,  and  Mannie, 


io8  THE   DAY   OF    SOULS 

impressed,  yielded.  Anything  J.  Ham  said — and  a 
cup  of  coffee.  Sure,  Ham  was  right.  They  would  go 
down  to  Steve's  and  have  whatever  it  was  Ham  men- 
tioned in  French. 

So,  with  the  dog,  now  befuddled  under  a  chrysanthe- 
mum wreath,  they  went  the  way  to  the  water  front. 
Then  Arnold  saw  Sammy  Jarbo  on  a  car  and  must 
needs  stop  the  cavalcade  to  hail  him,  get  him  off  and 
add  him  to  the  party.  Sammy  was  astounded,  but 
his  protests  were  drowned  in  gabble,  as  Mannie  led  the 
way  importantly  into  all  the  saloons  to  Davis  Street, 
climbing  on  the  bar-step  with  an  important  flourish  to 
the  loungers.  "What  'cha  havin'?  Aw — White  Rock 
— aw,  be  a  sport.  Aw,  come  on — rum  an'  gum — sure, 
rum  an'  gum !" 

And  he  would  protest  when  Louis  stuck  to  mineral 
water  and  Sammy  to  ginger  ale.  Arnold  drank  any- 
thing now ;  he  had  got  the  pinwheels  out  of  his  brain, 
and  had  forgotten  something,  he  said,  and  felt  all 
right,  and  was  all  right,  and  so  rounded  out  the 
achievement  with  many  libations. 

At  Steve  Sanguinetti's,  famous  for  its  cheap  con- 
viviality, given  over  to  clerks,  fishers,  sea  mates,  stu- 
dents, shoddy  Bohemians,  shop-girls  and  gaping  tour- 
ists who  heard  of  Steve's  at  the  hotels,  the  quartet 
found  a  table  and  at  once  attracted  attention.  Arnold 
bought  a  red  balloon  of  a  fakir,  tied  it  to  the  pup's  tail 
and  set  him  forth  as  a  centerpiece.  At  once  the  abashed 
pup  had  the  stage.  With  shrieks  of  delight  the  diners 
rose,  and  from  all  points  of  the  sawdusted  floor 
brought  their  chairs,  jammed  the  small  tables  together, 
and,  as  Mannie  said,  "made  it  a  party."  In  vain  the 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  109 

one-eyed  proprietor  objected.  He  was  hustled  off 
behind  his  bar,  bombarded  with  French  bread,  threat- 
ened with  a  syphon  soda  bath  by  a  girl  in  a  window, 
and  so  threw  up  his  hands  in  despair. 

Ferreri  was  in  a  panic — he  had  on  the  forget-me-not 
pin,  which  had  no  safety  catch,  and  here  he  was  sur- 
rounded by  girls  who  slapped  his  back  and  scalded  his 
knees  with  coffee  as  he  tried  to  watch  all  points  of 
danger.  Mannie  gurgled  with  joy;  it  was  what  he 
called  a  "bird  of  a  time,"  and  despite  jeers  and  cat- 
calls, he  was  master  of  ceremonies,  calling  for  more 
red  wine  and  denouncing  the  raviolis.  Arnold  was 
talking  foot-ball  with  a  trio  of  university  juniors,  who 
had  "caught"  a  like  number  of  Oakland  shop-girls 
and  "chased  them  over  to  the  city  to  eat  at  Steve's." 
Every  pirl  about  the  bay  knew  that  this  meant  not  to 
wear  yuui  fc~st  clothes,  and  to  laugh  when  strangers 
at  adjoining  tables  called  you  "kid"  or  "dearie." 
Steve's  was  perfectly  harmless,  but  then  you  mustn't 
mind! 

Out  of  this  laughing  orgy  of  youth  and  good  diges- 
tion Arnold  suddenly  broke  away — a  girlishly  bright 
face  near  him,  it  seemed,  had  curiously  caught  him. 
The  others  saw  him  staring  at  her,  and  then  he  left, 
paying  for  thirty-two  dinners  at  fifty  cents  each  and 
giving  ten  dollars  to  the  musicians  and  the  waiters. 
And  he  would  not  talk  as  he  stumbled  to  a  car. 

"What's  the  matter,  Hammy  ?"  asked  the  poet  anx- 
iously. "You  never  got  so  wild  as  this.  What's  hap- 
pened? Come  on  home." 

"Home?     Little  man,  you  run  along  and  make  a 


i  io  THE   DAY   OF    SOULS 

nice  poem  about  home  and  the  stars — and  love.  And 
leave  me  alone." 

But  the  poet  clung  to  him.  "No,  you've  done 
enough  to-night.  And  brace  up  for  that  little  girl." 

A  smile  came  to  Ham's  gray,  weary  face.  "Just  a 
dream — and  I'm  killing  it.  It  whirls  and  whirls,  but 
I'm  strangling  it.  Here — "  He  held  forth  a  long 
envelope  in  which  was  the  silken  case  containing 
Sylvia's  ten  thousand  dollars.  ,  "Mail  it — Trinity 
County.  Find  box,  Sammy — mail  it." 

Sammy's  eyes  bulged  at  sight  of  the  bills'  edges. 
"O,  what's  the  matter?  You'll  have  to  register  it.'5 

"Register?"  Arnold's  thick  voice  raised.  "All 
right — to-morrer."  He  stumbled  past  the  other. 
"And  that'll  end  it.  And  you  can  make  your  nice 
little  poem — home  and  love  and  my  soul — and  God, 
who  never  cares  nor  answers !" 

Mannie  and  Louis  joined  them,  Mr.  Murasky  with 
a  new  idea.  The  night  was  still  young — they  would 
go  to  the  Tivoli.  Nobody'd  care  at  the  old  free-hearted 
Tivoli — they  could  have  whatever  it  was  Ham  men- 
tioned in  French  about  the  pup.  Yes,  sir,  to  the 
Tivoli  and  hear  Tetrazzini  and  the  dago  bunch  sing, 
and  Paul  Steindorf's  orchestra.  No  grand  opera  for 
Mannie,  but  a  mutt  told  him  to  go  look  over  the 
chorus — a  dame,  third  from  the  right,  first  row.  But 
when  this  scheme  was  broached  in  the  car,  Arnold 
holding  to  his  chrysanthemum-enwreathed  pup,  with 
the  red  balloon  floating  from  its  tail  up  among  the 
car  straps,  mutiny  seized  his  henchmen.  Ferreri 
wouldn't  go  to  the  grand  opera.  Thunder — no !  Man- 
nie was  crazy  in  the  head !  Wouldn't  they  be  a  scrab- 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  in 

galagus  party  for  the  opera — Ham  and  his  pup  and 
the  balloon  and  chrysanthemums?  Everybody  knew 
him — the  orchestra  leader  and  the  tuba  player  and  a 
lot  of  guys.  No,  sir — no  opera! 

But  Mannie  got  twenty  dollars  from  Ham  and 
squirmed  off  through  the  crowd.  Outgeneraled,  the 
muddle-headed  slot-machine  man  still  protested.  Go 
to  the  opera  with  a  fool  dog  and  a  balloon?  They 
would  get  pinched,  that's  what  would  happen,  and  the 
bunch  down  the  line  would  get  hold  of  it  and  he'd 
never  hear  the  last  of  it,  and  it  would  hurt  business. 
Maybe  it  was  all  right  for  J.  Ham  Arnold;  he  was 
wont  to  set  the  Street  laughing ;  and  to  go  on  a  little 
toot  was  all  right — but  cut  out  the  grand  opera. 

But  Mr.  Arnold  decided  that  he  was  tired  and 
wanted  to  sit  down,  and  an  opera  was  as  good  as  any 
place  to  sit  down  in.  So,  still  croaking  evil,  the  slot- 
machine  man  saw  them  disappear  through  the  vesti- 
bule, Ham  hiding  the  pup  under  his  coat  and  Mannie 
juggling  the  balloon  behind  a  woman's  hat,  until  the 
trio  was  presently  in  a  stage  box.  But  in  the  lights 
the  poet  was  seized  with  misgivings.  Suppose  that 
fool  pup  barked?  And  that  red  balloon?  He  urged 
Mannie  to  give  him  the  thing,  but  the  little  Hebrew, 
sniggering  until  his  yellow  diamond  was  a  coruscation 
of  light,  reduced  to  a  regurgitative  smother  of  laugh- 
ter, refused.  And  then  the  overture  was  quelled,  the 
curtain  shot  up,  and  Rudolph  and  Marcel  were  blow- 
ing their  fingers  in  the  Parisian  attic,  for  it  was  La 
Boheme. 

"Questo  mar  rosso — mi  ammollisce,"  narrated  the 
baritone. 


H2  ,  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

"Look  at  th'  pup,"  whispered  Mr.  Murasky. 

"Che  faif  .  .  .  Nei  deli  bigi  guardo"  answered 
Rudolph. 

"Look  at  his  nose,"  continued  Mr.  Murasky.  "Kee- 
hee— " 

"L'amore  e  un  caminetto  che — " 

"e  in  fretta!"  bawled  the  baritone. 

"Look  at—" 

"Say,  Mannie — "  Arnold  stirred,  the  pup  rose  to- 
shake  himself,  and  the  ladies  in  the  adjoining  box  took 
notice — "if  you  don't  keep  still  I'll  throw  him  into 
that  big  horn.  Now — " 

"You're  drunk,"  gasped  Mr.  Murasky,  chortling 
with  suppressed  glee. 

"I'm  drunk,  but  I'll  get  over  it.  You're  a  damn 
fool,  and  you  never  will  get  over  it." 

"Ma  intanto  qui  si  gela — "  quavered  Rudolph,  but 
his  eye  was  on  the  front  row,  which  craned  about  fur- 
tively at  Mr.  Arnold's  box-party. 

"O,  Ham!"  whispered  the  affrighted  poet,  "don't 
talk  so  loud!" 

Mannie  Murasky  suddenly  straightened,  with  a 
countenance  blankly  alarmed.  "Where  is  it?  Who's 
got  it?" 

"Got  what?" 

"A  te  I'atto  primo!"  warbled  the  tenor,  his  eye  now 
on  the  pup. 

"Ga's  sake!"  whispered  the  Headlight  Kid,  "duke 
it— catch  it!" 

Under  the  edge  of  the  poet's  chair  the  red  balloon 
was  balancing.  The  trio  watched  it ;  the  poet  breath- 
lessly over  his  shoulder,  Mannie  hypnotized  by  appre- 


THE   DAY   OF    SOULS  113 

hensions,  and  J.  Ham  Arnold  philosophically  inter- 
ested. 

"Grab  it!"  gurgled  Mannie. 

The  poet  put  down  his  little  finger  and  pushed  the 
balloon  back  under  his  chair.  It  bobbed  to  the  other 
edge,  gyrating  maddeningly.  The  women  in  the  next 
box  looked  at  it  entranced ;  the  tuba  player  gaped ;  the 
front  orchestra  row  craned;  Marcel  and  Rudolph 
blinked  over  the  footlights. 

"Don't  wiggle,"  chattered  Mr.  Murasky;  "don't 
move— O!" 

Pop-eyed,  staring  frightfully  ahead,  sat  the  poet. 

"My  goodness !"  exclaimed  an  indignant  one  in  the 
adjoining  box,  "it's  awful!" 

Mr.  Arnold  uprose  and  bowed  to  her  with  resigned, 
solicitous  patience: 

"It  is — it  is  distinctly  the  worst  yet !" 

Injuredly  gathering  up  the  blue  pup,  with  its  trail- 
ing festoon  of  autumn  flowers,  the  box-party  host 
departed.  Mannie  turned,  but  dared  not  follow. 
Between  him  and  the  exit  the  balloon  titillated  under 
the  chair's  edge ;  a  breath  would  start  it  toward  the  pro- 
scenium. 

And,  staring  straight  before  him,  listening  to  the 
two  Bohemians  cackling  of  their  woes,  sat  the  laundry 
wagon  poet.  He  was  cold  as  ice ;  his  feet  tickled  with 
terror.  It  was  worse  than  being  stuck  on  the  forty- 
ninth  stanza  of  Pizarro's  Quest.  Then  the  portieres 
parted;  Mr.  Murasky  had  flown. 

"Pres-to!"  squealed  the  baritone. 

The  poet  prayed  for  an  earthquake. 


CHAPTER  VI 

At  nine  o'clock  Arnold  descended  from  a  boot- 
black's stand  on  Grant  Avenue,  inspected  his  shoes 
critically,  and  turned  down  this  street  of  fakirs.  He 
gave  himself  a  comforting  conceit  that  his  senses  still 
broke  subconsciously  through  the  tide  of  his  drunken- 
ness, that  he  could  see  tolerantly  above  the  chaos  that 
charged  him  now  and  then.  He  went  along  Grant 
Avenue,  carrying  the  dog  under  his  arm  with  lordly 
complacence. 

This  curious  place  was  packed  throughout  its  four 
short  blocks — a  forum  set  aside  by  unwritten  law  to 
the  evangelist,  the  agitator,  the  fakir,  the  proclaimers 
of  revolutions — the  unwashed,  unclean,  the  ebullience 
of  the  defeated,  the  querulous  individualism  of  this 
town  of  hates,  of  humors,  abortive  demagoguery, 
obscure  genius  and  turgid  idealism — here  its  mordant 
soul  of  discontent  rose  to  question  and  to  defy.  Never 
such  a  town  of  charlatanism  so  lavishly  supported  and 
incredulously  jeered;  palmists,  astrologers,  clairvoy- 
ants, seers  and  prophets  flourished  as  the  native  bays, 
and  on  Grant  Avenue,  now  before  Arnold's  eye,  the 
blatant  life,  the  staccato  under-voice  of  the  city  found 
expression. 

At  one  end  of  the  asphalted  forum  a  Socialist  agi- 
tator stormed  at  artisans,  complacent  from  being  the 
highest  paid  workers  in  the  world ;  near  him  the  band 

114 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  115 

of  the  Salvation  Army  beat  the  cadence  to  Heaven; 
then  an  old  man,  unknown,  unheeded,  lost  in  the 
throng,  quavered  a  silly  discourse  on  free  love,  next 
to  a  Jew  bawling  the  merits  of  a  magnetic  cure-all 
ring ;  and  a  faded  woman  distributing  pamphlets  fore- 
casting the  end  of  the  world,  a  decrepit  Egyptologist, 
with  a  patriarch's  beard,  lecturing  on  the  lost  scar- 
abaeus  of  Khem,  were  shouldered  by  a  broken-down 
pugilist,  who  was  selling  tips  on  to-morrow's  races; 
while  beyond,  in  the  end  of  a  cart  beneath  a  choking 
gas  torch,  a  quack  doctor,  in  top  hat  and  silk  waistcoat, 
pompous  and  strident-voiced,  pointed  to  his  red  ana- 
tomical charts,  gaping  skull  segments,  dismembered 
limbs,  gruesome,  diseased  viscera,  ghastly  under  the 
sinuous  light. 

But  beyond  these,  the  smaller  groups  unattached 
and  disintegrating  about  the  lesser  orators,  the  dis- 
putative  curb  philosophers,  none  lacking  hearing, 
Arnold's  eye  caught  an  unusual  figure.  Over  the 
packed  throng,  lit  by  a  flaring  torch  above  the  rostrum 
on  which  she  stood,  was  a  woman  in  the  black,  loose 
robe  of  an  academician,  the  mortar-board  cap  sur- 
mounting a  face,  young,  strong,  Romanesque ;  a  Diana 
grace  in  the  arm's  gesture.  Over  the  ragged  men,  the 
homeless  idlers,  the  fools  and  shamblers,  the  filled  and 
complacent,  the  hungry  and  absorbed,  the  street 
dreamers  and  idealists,  the  banal  and  corrupt,  she  tow- 
ered as  vivid  in  the  night's  flare  against  the  dark  as  a 
Rembrandt  study. 

The  young  man  stopped  before  the  dominance  of 
her  voice.  Above  the  shuffle  of  the  street,  clear,  sonor- 
ous, it  leaped  far  over  the  yap  and  clamor ;  it  held  him 


ii6  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

as  did  the  figure  poised,  the  face  compelling  imperi- 
ously. Always  his  secret  love  of  the  theatric  moved 
him;  now  he  staggered  on  and  a  phrase  came  to  him 
out  of  a  climacteric  period. 

She  was  preaching  of  a  mystic  Christ,  a  symbolic 
interpretation  of  all  revelations  and  messages  of  God, 
the  superimposition  of  a  modern  esthete  on  the  ancient 
prophecies,  an  oriental  concept  of  the  fervent  faith 
that  had  led  the  western  races.  The  soul  of  the  world 
slept,  she  said,  because  men  were  engrossed  with  the 
earth,  lacked  vision ;  they  turned  away  from  the  inner 
light,  for  within  each  was  the  power  to  redeem. 
Society  was  evil,  a  city  corrupt,  an  era  debased 
because  men  sank  the  real  beneath  the  apparent. 
There  was  no  sin,  suffering,  death ;  the  soul  was  incor- 
ruptible, but  it  slept  unexalted.  Within  each  lay  the 
power  to  pass  complete,  serene,  unmoved  through  all 
existences;  and  the  Christ  she  taught  was  a  mystic 
teacher,  high,  detached,  Nirvanic,  as  a  disk  of  pale 
gold  against  silver. 

In  the  street  they  listened,  they  whose  Christ  had 
been  a  Man  of  Sorrows,  gone  down  to  death  hot  with 
passion  for  the  common  love  of  the  fallen  and  the 
failed,  who  had  passed  along  the  dusty  roadside  unbe- 
friended;  they  listened  to  this  modern  concept,  this 
denial  of  sin  and  agonizing,  of  a  God  to  aid,  or  the 
need  of  aid,  to  this  symbolic  Christ  beckoning  them  to 
await  absorption  back  to  the  eternal  and  the  infinite; 
before  her  astonishing  appeal,  her  wondrous  voice, 
they  stood — but  no  man  came. 

Arnold,  the  drunken  wanderer,  elbowed  through  the 
throng  until  he  was  by  the  platform.  He  lurched  to 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  117 

it  until  the  torch  flared  higher,  and  with  a  shift  of  the 
black  robe  she  turned  her  face  to  him.  For  an  instant 
he  fought  back  the  delirium  to  look  at  her,  her  eyes 
widening,  her  lips  parting,  startled  as  by  an  accusing 
revelation.  And  it  seemed  to  him  that  she  stood  a 
meaningless  symbol,  high,  detached,  with  empty 
hands  above  the  outcasts,  as  though  they  waited  for 
some  great  message  and  she  had  none — nothing,  a 
fool's  talk,  a  scientific  formula  as  senseless  as  the 
gibber  of  any  priest  to  their  needs.  And,  staring  at 
her  for  a  while,  he  reeled  through  the  press  of  faces 
to  turn  with  a  cry:  "Who  cares?  Who  answers? 
You're  sleeping,  too !  You've  failed !" 

She  saw  his  glance  at  the  sensuous  completeness  of 
her  body  as  he  made  way,  the  crowd  cursing  him  in 
mutters,  to  the  curb.  Then,  with  a  curiously  mechan- 
ical falter,  as  in  a  dream,  she  saw  him  go  again  to  the 
Oriental  saloon. 

Arnold  paused  by  the  bar,  steadying  himself  against 
his  sickness,  his  dimming  brain ;  then  he  groped  to  the 
rear  of  the  establishment  and  staggered  into  one  of 
the  boxes,  a  square  apartment  hung  with  heavy  Turk- 
ish weaves  and  gold-threaded  tapestries.  Here,  tinder 
the  half  shadows  and  uncertain  glows  from  a  lantern 
of  perforated  bronze,  which  hung  over  the  table,  he 
fell  on  the  cushioned  wall  seat.  A  mulatto  attendant, 
in  fez  and  jacket  of  oriental  figure,  looked  in  at  the 
man  leaning  his  head  on  the  table,  showed  his  gleam- 
ing teeth  in  a  familiar,  friendly  smile  and  departed. 
The  air  of  the  place  was  warm,  voluptuous  with  liquor 
and  tobacco  smells  and  the  drugging  exhalations  of 
the  voluminous,  tawdry  hangings.  At  this  early  hour 


ii8  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

none  was  in  the  labyrinthine  rear  establishment  of  the 
Oriental.  From  the  bar-room  a  musical  device,  with 
a  chiming,  fairy-like  tinkle,  gave  forth  a  tremulous 
pianissimo  movement  from  the  Song  to  the  Evening 
Star. 

The  mulatto  in  the  red  fez  was  holding  a  whispered 
conference  at  the  end  of  the  corridor ;  a  woman's  voice 
questioned,  and  then  she  came  along  the  passage. 

The  man  in  the  box  heard  the  rustle  of  her  silken 
gown,  the  parting  of  the  portieres,  her  friendly  little 
laugh.  He  raised  his  heavy  head  to  greet  Nella  Free. 

From  her  came  a  barbaric  suggestion  of  perfumes, 
silks,  jewels,  an  elegant  coiffure,  apt  to  her  setting — 
she  was  beautiful  in  the  semi-purple  shadows  of  the 
corridor.  One  white  hand  was  on  the  Turkish  hang- 
ings, the  other  held  back  the  marten  fur  collar  from 
her  bosom. 

"Andy  said  you  were  here — and  needed  your 
friends,"  she  laughed.  "What's  the  matter,  Ham? 
Who  did  this  to  you  ?  I'm  surprised !" 

He  looked  at  her  steadily,  silently,  while  the  trilling 
melody  of  the  Tannhauser  song  came  softly  from  the 
front.  She  shrugged  her  shoulders  with  another  con- 
strained little  laugh,  and  seated  herself  opposite  him. 
The  attendant  appeared  with  a  tray  on  which  tinkled 
two  iced  glasses  of  a  pellucid  green  liquor. 

"Sallie  and  I  just  dropped  in  while  it's  quiet,"  Miss 
Free  remarked.  "You  know  I  daren't  go  round  town 
very  much.  I  ordered  the  creme  de  minthe  for  us — 
but  you — " 

He  motioned  the  waiter  away  and  turned  to  watch 
her  gravely,  again  master  of  his  dimming  senses.  She 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  119 

twitched  nervously  under  his  eyes ;  she  rubbed  her  red 
lips  with  a  bit  of  lace  and  started  to  rally  him,  but  he 
interrupted  with  a  moody  impatience. 

"How  long  has  Stillman  been  keeping  you?" 

She  tossed  her  chin  petulantly. 

"I  told  you  once— everything/' 

His  directness  hurt  her. 

"He'll  never  marry  you." 

She  twisted  about  in  the  seat.  "Well,"  she  laughed, 
a  hand  on  her  side,  "he's  had  plenty  of  time  to  make 
good !  But  it's  all  in  a  lifetime." 

"Yes — five  years  now,  isn't  it?" 

"I  met  him  when  I  was  a  candy-store  girl  in  Oak- 
land— I  was  sixteen.  Harry's  been  good  to  me  ever 
since." 

"Just  a  little  girl — and  life  smashed  in  on  you/1 

She  laughed  in  deprecation.  "See  here — what's  the 
matter  with  you  ?  I  kept  my  mother  well  off  until  she 
died,  and  I'm  keeping  my  little  sister  in  Notre  Dame. 
I'd  rather  be  here,  Hammy,  than  to  be  one  of  these 
shop-girls.  Did  you  ever  ask  any  of  your  millionaire 
friends  who  run  the  big  stores  and  support  the 
churches  how  a  girl  can  live  on  four  dollars  a  week  ?" 

"Some  day,  Nel,  he'll  quit  you — and  then — then — " 

"I'll  be  old  and  ugly,  eh?"  she  retorted  sharply. 
"Well,  so'll  the  other  girls.  And  then  dead,  eh  ?  Well, 
so'll  the  good  girls." 

The  man  raised  his  head,  fighting  the  grim  tide 
drowning  his  brain. 

"Your  soul's  asleep,"  he  muttered ;  "soul's  asleep !" 

"Who  cares?"  she  answered,  with  her  idle  laugh. 
"It's  all  in  a  lifetime!  Who  cares?" 


120  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

"God  cares."  He  looked  at  her;  her  blue  eyes 
widened  in  a  sort  of  fear.  "God  cares,"  he  muttered, 
"and  I'm  going  back  somehow — some  way." 

She  sat  staring  at  him,  the  tinkling  note  of  the  star 
song  in  their  ears,  silent  in  the  drugged  air  of  the 
Turkish  room. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you?"  she  said  at  last,  her 
nervous  laugh  following.  "God?  And  going  back? 
Hammy,  you're  awful  drunk.  I'll  call  the  machine 
and  send  you  to  the  baths.  You're  crazy." 

A  man  came  laughing  along  the  passage;  Eddie 
Ledyard  stood  before  them. 

"Some  one  said  you  needed  looking  after.  Ham," 
he  cried.  "Nel,  what's  on  him,  to  do  this  ?" 

Arnold  folded  his  arms,  his  body  swaying,  and 
looked  benignly  on  them. 

"You  two,"  he  muttered,  "going  to  love  each  other, 
eh?  Now,  don't.  Love's  a  bad  joke,  Nel;  so  bad  that 
I  can't  laugh  at  it  any  more." 

The  flush  of  the  girl's  blood  mounted  through  her 
rouge.  Eddie  laughed  confusedly.  "Jolly  along,"  he 
evaded.  "Must  have  made  a  killing!  And  who's 
going  to  win  the  Narcissus  stakes?  Watt  Chatom's 
filly?" 

"Bianca,"  murmured  Arnold  sententiously,  drawn 
from  his  stupor. 

"Bianca!"  cried  the  girl.  "That's  what  I  heard,  too 
—on  the  dead !" 

Ledyard  started — they  should  know,  these  two — 
they  were  in  with  the  inside  crowd  at  the  track.  "Sure  ? 
You  sure  it's  Bianca,  Ham?" 

Arnold  nodded  cunningly  and  unsteadily  transferred 


THE   DAY   OF    SOULS  121 

the  dolorous  pup  from  one  pocket  to  another,  holding 
its  forefeet  in  the  crook  of  his  arm.  "Bianca,"  he 
affirmed  sleepily,  and  waved  them  away.  "I'm  close 
.to  the  wise  talk — Bianca." 

Another  step  had  come  along  the  corridor ;  a  pow- 
erfully built  young  man,  with  a  red  face  and  blue 
German  eyes,  looked  into  the  box  with  a  nervous 
laugh. 

"What's  this  I  hear?"  he  demanded.  "Ham,  they 
told  me  to  look  you  up !" 

Hammy  looked  with  superior  benevolence  on  the 
legislator.  "Fred,  I'm  all  right — no  crook's  going  to 
strong-arm  me.  I've  come  back — s'where  I  belong." 

Fred  Weldy's  startled  laugh  echoed;  he  stared  at 
the  others. 

"Take  care  of  him,"  Nella  whispered.  "There  was 
a  girl  he  was  going  to  marry.  And  she  must  have 
thrown  him  down — Hammy,  a  lad  who's  good  to  every 
woman !  You'd  better  take  care  of  him." 

Arnold  put  his  hand  paternally  on  Weldy's  shoulder, 
as  always  he  had  done  since  their  high-school  days, 
though  the  job  printer  was  his  own  age. 

"Son,"  he  began  impressively,  "I'm  close  up  and 
you  aren't.  I  put  you  in  politics,  didn't  I,  Fred?  I 
made  you." 

The  legislator  started,  laughed  feebly.  Ham  was 
indeed  drunk,  thought  he,  for  boasting  was  the  last 
thing  in  him. 

"Come  on  home,  Hammy,"  he  urged.  "I  just  ran 
down  from  the  capital  to  see  you.  I've  been  reading 
all  this  stuff  in  the  papers — and  I  had  to  see  you — " 

"To-morrow,"  returned  his  political  godfather,  with 


122  THE   DAY   OF    SOULS 

dignity.  "To-night  I'm  merely  getting  the  right  per- 
spective of  some  things.  And  don't  mind  the  papers — 
no  grand  jury  crooks  on  earth  can  get  me.  I  didn't 
save  you,  Fred — merely  program — program — joke  on 
the  people  made  an'  provided." 

Eddie  Ledyard,  to  whom  politics  was  a  closed  book, 
was  staring.  Nella  Free  shrugged  her  shoulders,  with 
a  warning  to  the  one  "close  up."  But  he  went  on: 
"Afraid?  Afraid  of  this  town?  What  is  it?  A  rat— 
I  can  kick  it  and  it  squeals — and  what  can  it  do  ?"  He 
touched  the  statesman's  arm  imperially.  "I'm  putting 
you  wise — when  you're  close  to  the  big  men  and  the 
big  money,  nothing  can  touch  you — nothing!  Look 
here — we  put  you  in  the  legislature  to  kill  this  investi- 
gation of  what  killed  the  anti-racing  bills — now,  you 
know  where  you  get  off,  don't  you  ?" 

The  legislator  laughed  deprecatingly ;  his  manhood 
writhed.  "Be  still,  old  man;  you're  drunk!  And 
you're  a  marked  man  now,  with  all  these  stories  out, 
and  all  the  preachers  and  unions  and  farmers  howling 
to  know  what  killed  the  racing  bills.  God's  sake,"  he 
went  on  pathetically,  "and  all  the  crooks  and  liquor 
men  in  the  state  hounding  us  the  other  way.  I  came 
down  to  talk  to  you,  Ham,  and  you're  drunk!" 

"Perspective,"  murmured  the  other.  "Want  to  get 
off  and  see  things  different — merely  so.  I'm  crooked 
— I  know  that ;  you're  crooked — you  know  that ;  we're 
all  crooked — we  all  know  that;  but  let's  get  away 
from  pretense  and  tell  one  another  so.  What's  this 
gag  the  preachers  spring?  They  stand  up  and  tell 
God  we're  all  sinners ;  but  they  daren't  tell  that  to  the 
big  money  behind.  Their  souls  are  asleep,  too.  I 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  123 

could  go  preach  on  the  avenue  to-night — I  feel  relig- 
ious. Here's  you  that's  crooked,  here's  me  that's 
crooked,  here's  all  of  us  that's  crooked — and  yet  I 
think  God  cares." 

They  looked  on  the  drunken  fool,  and  after  a  bit, 
fighting  his  delirium,  he  lurched  through  the  doorway. 
Weldy  watched  him  long,  and  then  went  after  him,  but 
he  had  gained  the  street,  lost  in  the  throng. 

In  the  stuffy  little  box  the  clerk  looked  anxiously 
at  Nella  across  the  table.  "God  cares!"  he  echoed, 
with  a  laugh.  "O,  what's  got  into  him  ?" 

"If  some  one  cared  it'd  be  different  with  a  lot  of  us," 
she  answered.  "We'd  be  different  if  just  some  one 
cared." 

The  boyish  clerk  tried  to  take  her  hand  across  the 
table ;  he  went  on  with  eagerness :  "Yes,  you'd  be  dif- 
ferent if  some  one  cared — and  if  you  cared  for  some 
one.  You  can't  fool  me,  Nel.  I  told  you  once  how 
much  I  cared — " 

She  checked  him  with  a  laugh ;  she  tapped  him  play- 
fully with  the  rubber  tube  of  the  Turkish  pipe  on  the 
table.  "Here,  now,  stop,  Eddie.  Haven't  you  a 
mother — and  everybody?  I  promised  Hammy  I 
wouldn't  let  you  talk  like  this.  And  besides,"  she  hur- 
ried on,  "you  couldn't  stand  the  pace  a  little  bit.  My 
bills  last  month  were  three  hundred  dollars  for  just 
clothes!" 

"If  you  loved,"  he  burst  out  with  the  fine  chivalry 
of  twenty-one,  "clothes  wouldn't  matter — not  if  you 
cared!" 

Nella  laughed,  choking  a  tremor  from  her  voice, 
reaching  for  the  evening  paper  on  the  tabk.  "Now, 


124  THE  DAY   OF   SOULS 

Kid,  let's  just  be  friends.  Here."  she  added  to  hide 
her  trouble,  "the  Narcissus  entries  are  out.  Eddie, 
Ham  said  Bianca.  Let's  just  be  friends — and  you  can 
play  fifty  for  me  at  Corbett's.  Come;  we're  only 
friends,  and  we'll  back  Bianca !" 


CHAPTER  VH 

At  midnight  the  westerly  fogs  streamed  across  the 
city,  the  cold  wind  searched  the  streets.  From  the 
squat  markets  of  the  water  front  the  wanderer  came 
alone.  He  was  uncertain  of  the  corner,  trembling 
with  the  chill  and  reaction;  he  was  beginning  to 
remember,  and  he  wished  to  forget.  But  as  he  started, 
something  moved  across  his  shoes.  Scared,  wet,  hun- 
gry, dragging  a  frayed  rope  in  which  was  twisted  a 
single  scuffed  chrysanthemum,  the  country  dog  crept 
to  his  feet.  In  and  out  of  drink  shops,  the  splendid 
places  that  boasted  that  for  fifty  years  they  had  not 
closed  their  doors,  day  or  night;  the  gin  joints  of 
Chinatown,  the  Italian  wine  rooms  hewed  out  of  the 
hill  rock,  the  Japanese  resorts,  where  sloe-eyed  little 
women  fed  the  master  hot  rice  wine,  the  brute  had 
followed.  Now  he  picked  it  from  the  slime,  wiped  its 
feet  and  tucked  it  from  the  fog  beneath  his  coat  so 
that  its  nose,  with  a  dreary  snuffle,  lay  by  his  ear. 

"Cold,  pup?''  the  man  muttered.  "Neve*  mind,  pal; 
you  stand  by  me  and  be  square.  Jus'  follow  me,  Kid, 
and  be  square."  So,  stilling  its  racking  shivers  on  his 
breast,  he  went  into  the  darkness. 

He  was  before  the  garish  portal  of  a  Barbary  Coast 
dance-hall  an  hour  later.  The  narrow,  cobbled  way 
shone  with  the  arcs  each  direction,  a  mile  from  Kearny 
to  the  bay,  and  all  along  came  the  blare  of  bands 

125 


126  THE   DAY    OF    SOULS 

from  basement  after  basement  dance-hall,  so  many 
and  so  close-packed  that  the  crash  of  reed  and  brasses 
from  thousands  of  instruments  became  an  inharmonic 
riot  without  form,  without  time ;  and  as  the  red  glare 
of  the  street  made  it  a  gaping  wound  in  the  dark  quar- 
ter, so  over  it  hovered  this  insane  ensemble,  the  soul  of 
music  maddened. 

Arnold  watched  the  stream  in  and  out  of  the  famed 
places  of  the  Coast.  Sailors,  soldiers,  recruits  and 
time-expired,  cattlemen  and  miners,  salmon  packers 
and  Sierra  shepherds,  broken  adventurers  from  all  the 
south,  and  with  these,  sight-seeing  women  tourists, 
guided  by  police,  flashy  youths  over  from  the  town, 
patrolmen  and  plain-clothes  men,  made  up  the  after- 
midnight  tide.  Within  the  halls  the  same  pageant, 
laughter,  hurrying,  shouts,  quarrels — his  impassive 
eye  rested  on  it  with  curious  interest,  for  it  was  far 
removed  from  the  night  aristocracy  he  knew  down- 
town. 

He  was  at  The  Welcome,  when  a  dozen  soldiers 
crowded  the  entrance  of  the  dance-hall,  noisily  bawl- 
ing to  others  in  the  street.  The  ever-ready  patrol 
wagon  had  dashed  by. 

"Mexican  cut  a  girl  at  the  Firefly,"  muttered  a 
hanger-on,  "and  a  tough  whaler  cleaned  out  Cowboy 
Mag's."  But  none  would  go  to  see — it  was  merely 
the  prelude  to  the  night's  police  court  harvest.  But  at 
two  o'clock  the  pace  quickened.  Arnold,  recovered 
from  his  stupor,  had  begun  drinking  again,  spending 
money  sensationally  free  from  hall  to  hall;  he  soon 
had  a  following  mostly  of  riotous  soldiers  "gone 
broke"  and  hailing  him  as  blood  brother. 


THE  DAY   OF   SOULS  127 

"M'  son-of-a-gun,"  murmured  a  yellow-striped 
corporal.  "Ol'  Sec*  Cavalry — s'wat  he  is.  Sure! 
Santa  Isabel — Pilar  del  Rio — Rosario — whole  bunch 
of  fights  s'ze  was  in." 

"Ev'  hear  of  Inky  Idgetts?"  broke  in  another. 
"Troop  guide— hel've  fine  bucky— Idgetts — Third 
Squadron.  Me  an'  him — " 

Against  his  crowding  confreres  Arnold  waved  the 
pup:  "Sure — sure.  Ol'  Sec'  Cavalry — sure!" 

"This  yere  Idgetts—" 

"I  bane  know  him — " 

A  huge  and  hairy  sailor  pushed  into  the  martial 
group.  His  blue  eyes  and  pink  face  turned  from  one 
tc  another  in  great  good  nature. 

"Idgetts — me  an'  him — " 

"I  bane  know  him,  too — " 

"O,  Scandinavia,  forget  it !"  murmured  the  corporal, 
softly.  "Blow?' 

A  yellow-haired  girl  clung  to  the  sailor's  arm.  "O, 
come,  you  Babe ;  don*  mix !"  she  pleaded,  and  tried  to 
draw  him  from  them. 

"This  yere  Idgetts — they  lin-cheed  him — " 

"By  Valdez  I  coom— " 

The  narrator  of  Idgetts'  exploits  turned  on  the 
Swede.  "Now,  hit  the  grit!  I'm  tellin'  of  this  yere 
bucky.  They  sliced  'im — " 

But  the  Viking  thrust  beaming  among  them:  "I 
coom  by  Valdez — " 

And  then,  as  the  blonde  girl  clung  to  his  huge  arm 
wailing:  "Aw,  don'  start  nothin'!  Aw,  come,  you 
honey !"  a  fist  shot  over  her  shoulder  at  the  seaman's 
ear.  He  fell  back,  looking  with  amazed  infantile 


128  THE   DAY   OF    SOULS 

injury  about  him,  and  then,  propelled  by  some  human 
catapult  behind,  for  what  reason  and  by  whom  will 
never  be  known,  the  celebrant  of  the  Idgetts  epic  was 
suddenly  doubled  up  and  into  the  Northman's  stomach. 
And  at  once  the  place  was  a  whirling  fight.  Into  it 
plunged  a  trio  of  bouncers  and  floor  managers.  The 
proprietor  himself,  a  former  light-weight  pugilist,  now 
barrel  fat,  bobbed  about,  panting  in  the  press,  a  cork 
on  troubled  waters.  The  swaying  battle  jammed  the 
door,  the  white  windows  fell  with  a  snarl  of  breaking 
glass  and  the  combatants  went  to  the  street,  with  the 
police  leaping  on  the  flanks  like  ready  dogs. 

Arnold  was  in  the  thick,  dodging,  laughing ;  he  saw 
an  officer's  club  raised  above  the  girl,  who  still  clung 
screaming  to  the  seaman's  sleeve. 

"Barret,  cut  that !"  His  hand  went  about  the  police- 
man's wrist.  The  other  jerked  free  and  whirled  his 
lighter  antagonist  against  the  broken  door.  "You  will, 
will  you?"  he  roared.  "Le'  go  that  club !" 

"O,  quit,"  murmured  Mr.  Arnold.  "Don't  be  fool- 
ish— you  know  me" 

"No,  I  don't !  Don't  gi'  me  any  lip !"  The  officer 
forced  him  through  the  thickening  crowd.  The  fight 
had  stopped  with  surprising  suddenness.  About  the 
prisoners  seized  at  random  the  police  listened  dryly  to 
the  gabble,  wiping  their  perspiring  heads.  The 
wheezing  proprietor,  so  short  of  stature  that  nothing 
but  his  round  post  of  a  head  was  seen,  cursed  the  sol- 
diers and  onlookers,  who  jeered  him  and  the  dance- 
hall  women  in  the  wrecked  front  of  The  Welcome. 
And,  towering  above  all,  the  great  Swede  looked  with 
round-faced,  babyish  perplexity  at  them  and  the  patrol 


THE   DAY   OF    SOULS  129 

racing  under  the  white  arcs  a  block  away.  The  girl 
saw  the  oncoming  wagon. 

"Ga'  sake/'  she  wailed,  "if  I  get  pinched !  O,  if  I 
get  pinched !  George — "  she  appealed  to  the  proprie- 
tor— "tell  'em  I  wasn't  doin'  nothin' !" 

"I  don't  want  youse  in  my  place  at  all  if  you  ain't 
a  lady.  I  won't  stand  for  you  if  youse  ain't  a  perfect 
lady." 

"Cut  out  the  bull,"  murmured  a  policeman  wearily. 
"They'll  all  go." 

Arnold  turned  to  him.  "See  here,  you  can't 
ride  me!" 

"Dry  up !"  the  officer  retorted.  "Here,  climb  in  the 
wagon !" 

The  prisoner's  eye  was  on  the  patrol  van  backing  to 
the  curb.  He  turned  with  a  menace  on  the  officer. 
"Say,  sport,  I'm  Jack  Arnold.  You  ride  me  and  I'll 
break  you.  Just  ask  Harry  Stillman  or  the  chief 
about  me — " 

"Tumble  in,"  replied  the  patrolman ;  "sing  it  to  the 
birdies." 

And,  staring  at  the  wagon,  with  a  sudden  laugh, 
Arnold  got  in. 

The  plunging  van  with  the  Swede,  the  dance  girl 
and  the  querulous  historian  of  Trooper  Idgetts, 
whirled  through  the  glare  of  Pacific  Street  to  the  hall 
of  justice,  leaving  at  The  Welcome,  on  the  bar,  sur- 
rounded by  pools  of  beer  that  stuck  to  its  feet  in 
unpleasing  puckers,  wearing  dismally  a  frayed  chrys- 
anthemum in  its  rag  rope  collar,  the  lavender  pup  from 
the  country-up-in-back. 

The   dance-hall   girl    wailed    in   the   jogging   van: 


130  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

"Aw,  Jo'll  kill  me— I  never  been  pinched— Jo'll  kill 
me!" 

Arnold  came  to  her,  a  hand  on  her  arm.  "Now, 
don't  go  on  so,  sister.  I'll  see  you  through  this." 

She  turned  savagely  on  him.  "Aw,  you  c'n  talk! 
You  come  down  the  street  in  yer  good  clothes  and 
money — and  to-morrow  it's  all  right.  But  what 
chance's  a  girl  got?  Just  tell  me  what's  right  about 
it?" 

The  young  man  sat  back  in  the  shadows  of  the  van. 
He  watched  her,  and  then,  when  they  descended,  he 
said  quietly:  "Kid,  I'm  sorry.  I'll  see  you  through 
it  all." 

But  she  snarled  at  him,  though  before  the  desk  ser- 
geant in  the  basement  office,  he  watched  her  unmoved, 
in  a  sort  of  dream. 

The  idling  officers  gave  them  a  casual  inspection. 
Beyond,  a  tall  woman  in  black  was  identifying  some 
stolen  trinkets  at  a  desk,  and  the  book-sergeant  did  not 
look  up  for  a  moment. 

"Shinanigan  at  George's,"  laconically  began  the 
complaining  officer.  "Girl  and  this  Swede  jumped  a 
soldier  who  wouldn't  stand  percentage  and  Crosby 
tried  to  put  'em  out.  And  this  fellow,"  indicating 
Arnold,  "tried  to  swing  on  me." 

The  heavy- jowled  sergeant  grunted  and  turned  to 
the  arrest  book. 

"Name?" 

"I  coom  by  Valdez,"  said  the  sailorman.  "Captain 
Nelson,  he  tole  me — " 

"Name!"  roared  the  sergeant,  and  the  arresting 
officer  said :  "Ole  Oleson— that'll  do  for  him." 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  131 

The  desk  man  scratched  stolidly ;  then  turned  to  the 
soldier.  "Name?" 

"My  name's  Franzie — H.  Franzie.  Hell,  I  wasn't 
doin'  nothin' !  I  was  just  tellin'  of  this  yere  Idgetts — " 

"Name?"  thundered  the  sergeant  to  the  dance-hall 
girl,  who  wept,  clinging  to  the  rail. 

"I  was  just  trying  to  keep  'em  from  fighting. 
George'll  tell  you.  I'm  Maude  Cummins.  Oh,  Jo'll 
kill  me—" 

"Take  'em  up,"  growled  the  bulbous-headed  one. 
His  heavy  eyes  wandered  with  sleepy  malice  to  Arnold. 
He  sat  back,  putting  down  the  pen,  and  took  up  his 
dead  cigar.  The  well-dressed  prisoner  had  stood  non- 
chalantly apart,  watching  the  matter. 

"Say,  Jack,  can't  you  raise  enough  deviltry  in  Ellis 
Street  without  comin'  over  here.  Gotta  bank  roll,  hey, 
and  gotta  spend  it?" 

An  idling  patrolman  laughed.  "Was  it  Hermoine 
in  the  Sixth?"  he  put  in,  and  Jack  Arnold  smiled 
placidly. 

The  arresting  officer  looked  his  discomfiture.  He 
had  "made  a  break"  then,  had  he?  He  was  new  on 
the  force  and  met  many  "drags"  that  perplexed  him. 
Concealing  his  chagrin  he  drove  the  other  prisoners 
to  the  door.  But  the  girl  clung  to  the  rail,  turning  on 
Arnold  with  a  scream  of  rage. 

"You  know!  Tell  'em  I  wasn't  doing  anything. 
Here  you  get  off — you're  some  damned  politician — 
some  sure-thing  man  strong  with  the  office — " 

"Shut  that !"  bellowed  the  sergeant. 

"Naw,  you  wouldn't  do  a  thing  to  him,  wouldja? 
Him  with  his  good  clothes  an'  his  pull — " 


132  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

"Redmond,"  began  Arnold,  "she's  right.  George 
just  wanted  to  give  her  the  run — and  she  wasn't  do- 
ing a  thing." 

"She  can  tell  that  to  the  judge  to-morrow.    Up !" 

The  girl  shrieked  as  they  forced  her  to  the  door. 
The  tall  woman  in  black  turned  a  troubled  face,  but 
they  did  not  see  her.  Arnold  stood,  his  face  darkling, 
the  liquor  craze  driven  for  a  time  from  his  brain. 

"Look  here,"  he  said,  "that  girl's  right— she  was 
trying  to  stop  the  row." 

"Don't  go  tellin'  me  my  business,"  the  desk  sergeant 
blustered. 

Arnold  swung  before  him.  "Yes,  damn  you,  you 
run  that  girl  in  for  nothing,  but  you  don't  do  a  thing 
tome!" 

"Get  out  of  here !"  snarled  the  sergeant. 

"Yes,  I'm  let  off.  I've  got  a  drag,  haven't  I?  I'm 
strong  higher  up,  ain't  I  ?  That  poor  devil  of  a  sailor 
will  get  ten  days  and  lose  his  ship  and  wages,  and  that 
lad  from  the  cavalry  will  be  cinched  at  camp,  and  that 
weak-minded  girl  will  be  robbed  by  the  bond  sharks 
and  the  judge'll  wink  at  it.  O,  it's  great  to  be  an 
American !  It's  a  fine  old  graft — and  to  hell  with  the 
crooks  like  you !" 

The  sergeant  was  dumb  with  astonishment — his  lit- 
tle pig  eyes  rolled  bewilderedly  between  the  oily  fat 
of  his  cheeks.  Then  dismay  gave  place  to  wrath. 
"Get  out  of  here !"  he  roared.  "Take  him  home — he's 
drunk  t" 

Arnold  shook  his  fist  at  the  brass  buttons.  "Send 
me  up !  Go  on,  you  crook  !  Afraid  of  me,  aren't  you  ? 
O,  it's  a  great  thing  to  be  an  American !" 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  133 

"Git !"  howled  the  sergeant,  and  a  laughing  patrol- 
man slipped  an  arm  about  John  Arnold  and  led  him 
away.  On  the  broad  steps  he  freed  the  belligerent. 
"Pull  out,  Jack.  Old  Redmond  will  jug  you  if  you 
roast  him — it's  fierce.  Now  get  home,  boy!" 

The  young  man  leaned  against  a  polished  pillar  of 
the  hall  of  justice  and  looked  across  the  dark  spread 
of  Portsmouth  Square.  His  dimming  senses  rose  to 
note  the  fantastic  roofs  of  Chinatown,  a  dragon  flag 
limp  in  the  promised  morning.  Still  and  sleeping  the 
city  lay.  He  stretched  an  arm  to  it.  "What's  right  in 
it  all?  What's  right?" 

The  stars  beyond  the  dragon  flag  rocked;  intent 
with  his  sickness,  he  did  not  hear  the  door  open,  the 
woman  come  out.  Seeing  the  man  she  stopped,  and 
then  he  slowly  turned  with  a  dull  glance  at  her,  the 
preacher  of  the  mystic  Christ  in  the  street  of  fakirs. 

"It's  you,"  he  muttered,  "and  you've  failed,  too. 
You're  way  above  it  all — you've  given  nothing  to  us 
all — you've  failed,  too." 

She  was  silent  before  his  insolence.  The  light  on 
her  face  from  the  electrolier  recalled  a  flickering  re- 
membrance of  his  student  days — a  medallion  he  had 
seen,  a  Minerva  head.  The  woman  had  a  face  as  pure, 
as  unmoved  as  that  classic  profile.  He  turned  from  her 
with  a  growl.  "I'm  going  back.  I  want  it  right." 

And  then  stepping  clear  of  the  column's  base,  he 
pitched  headlong  to  the  pavement.  She  hurried  after 
him,  kneeled,  turning  his  face  to  the  light.  Blood 
splashed  her  gloves.  A  cabman  came  from  the  all- 
night  stand  across  the  street. 


I34  THE   DAY   OF    SOULS 

"Bad  tumble,"  he  •  said,  bending  over.  "It's  Jack 
Arnold !" 

"We'd  better  get  him  to  the  hospital."  She  wiped 
the  blood  from  his  head. 

The  driver  hesitated.  "Mebbe  not.  He's  not  hurt 
much  and  he's  pretty  well  known — I'd  hate  to  mix 
him  at  the  'mergency.  He  lives  jus'  up  the  hill." 

"Well,  home,  then.    Bring  your  cab  across." 

They  got  the  senseless  man  into  it  with  difficulty. 
The  woman  held  him  on  the  cushions  as  the  vehicle 
whirled  through  Chinatown.  Once  he  struggled  to 
consciousness.  "Le'  me  explain — He  cares — He 
cares—" 

"Be  still !"  she  whispered  and  held  him  closer  in  her 
strong  arms.  It  seemed  a  stealthy  joy  had  come,  the 
outpouring  of  a  maternal  softness  as  a  glow  in  the 
white  stillness  of  her  soul's  way,  she  who  had  moved 
alone  and  with  empty  hands. 

At  the  curb  below  his  rooms  they  lifted  him  to  his 
unsteady  feet,  feeling  of  her  handkerchief  bound  about 
his  head.  While  the  driver  took  him  up  the  stairs  she 
searched  for  his  hat  in  the  carriage.  She  found  some- 
thing else — a  dirty  package,  a  sort  of  silken  case, 
bulging  with  money.  She  looked  out  at  the  drunken 
man,  at  the  driver  assisting  him  with  commiserating 
jests ;  with  a  frowning  thought,  a  hesitance,  she  placed 
the  packet  in  her  bodice. 

The  cabman  returned.  "He  can  get  in  all  right — 
says  he  mustn't  wake  up  Granny!"  He  laughed. 
"And  he  says  to  thank  the  lady !" 

"You  know  him" — she  said  calmly — "very  well?" 

"Everybody  knows  him.     A  lad  round  town — one 


THE  DAY  OF   SOULS  135 

of  the  race-track  crowd.  But  square" — she  was  ten- 
dering him  money — "no,  not  from  you.  I'll  take  you 
home.  They  call  you  the  Christ  Crier  down-town, 
don't  they?  And  we  ought  to  help  sinners."  He 
laughed.  "We  all  know  you,"  the  driver  muttered. 
"They  turn  to  watch  you — your  grand  voice." 

She  smiled  wearily.  All  the  town  knew  her  as  the 
Street  knows  its  pageantry — no  more.  And  so,  across 
the  abyss  dividing  her  pale  Christ  from  the  red  shores 
of  life,  she  knew  the  world — no  more.  Untouched, 
listening  curiously  to  the  agony  beyond  the  gulf,  she 
had  moved  alone,  complacent,  soul  sufficient. 

Arnold  felt  along  the  balcony  rail  to  his  door.  The 
clock  in  the  hall  of  justice  struck  five.  He  looked  on 
the  city  lights,  on  the  ocean  fog  above.  Then  the 
lights  became  comets,  the  clouds,  whirling  bands — he 
fell  squarely,  as  one  stricken  by  death,  on  the  mat  be- 
fore his  door. 

After  half  an  hour  his  fingers  moved  along  the  mat, 
finding  some  substance  which  they  carried  to  his  lips. 
The  dead  fragrance  of  the  violets — her  violets,  scat- 
tered over  him  on  another  dawn  as  he  lay  here,  her 
guardian  knight,  were  on  his  lips,  but  he  did  not 
know. 

Presently,  rap-a-tap,  dragging  a  rag  rope  out  of  the 
slime  of  the  streets,  a  homeless  dog  crept  up  the  stairs. 
He  whined  miserably,  and  then  slunk  on  to  crawl  upon 
the  master's  breast  and,  sheltered,  sleep.  On  this  the 
day  came  and  then  the  sun  shone — a  thief,  a  perjurer 
and  an  outcast,  senseless  in  the  blood  and  flowers  on 
the  hilltop. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

"There's  a  good  deal  to  poetry,"  continued  Mr. 
Jarbo,  dining  with  Mannie  Murasky  at  Sedaini's,  "be- 
sides getting  the  words  to  match  at  the  ends  of  your 
lines.  Technique's  a  big  thing,  but  then  you've  got  to 
look  out  for  the  poetic  principle.  Many  a  good  lad's 
had  to  quit  the  business  and  go  unhonored  down  the 
corridors  of  Time  because  he  was  a  shine  when  it  came 
to  handling  the  poetic  principle." 

Mr.  Murasky,  uncertain  but  disputatious,  continued 
to  polish  a  loaf  of  Italian  bread  across  his  sleeve, 
sparring  mentally  for  what  he  termed  a  "come-back." 

The  poet  moved  far  from  Mannie's  sphere ;  he  was 
a  fellow  always  dumbstruck  by  a  pretty  face  or  good 
things  to  eat,  and  an  alliterative  line  or  a  felicitous 
measure,  suggesting  to  his  vague  conceits  the  great 
thing  he  should  sometime  do,  would  play  the  devil 
with  a  whole  day's  work  for  him. 

"Never  neglect  the  poetic  principle,"  the  versifier 
continued  to  admonish,  "and  if  a  man  ever  wants  to 
land  the  big  stuff  he's  got  to  look  out  for  technique. 
Poe  was  strong  on  technique — if  he'd  have  cut  the 
booze—" 

"Poe,  nothin',"  put  in  Mannie  loftily.  "If  he'd  ever 
hit  th'  street  alongside  of  J.  Ham  Arnold  he'd  been 
nothin'  but  a  trail  of  smoke  in  th'  distance.  How's 
Ham  feelin'  this  morning?" 

136 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  137 

John  Hamilton  Arnold  was,  indeed,  Mannie's  secret 
examplar.  He  would  like  to  have  idled  about  the 
town  in  that  fashion,  being  seen  fashionably  dressed  on 
sunny  afternoons  along  Market  Street  in  debonair 
chaffing  with  the  politicians,  the  sporting  writers  and 
race-track  men. 

He  now  looked  on  the  downfall  of  his  patron  with 
mixed  feelings,  proud  to  have  it  said  that  he  and  J. 
Ham  were  on  a  "toot"  together,  but  what  indeed  had 
happened  ? 

No  one  knew — none  questioned  the  prodigal,  though 
about  his  bedside  revolved  a  world  of  solicitude.  A 
hero  returned  battered  from  the  wars  could  not  have 
evoked  such  a  going-on  of  mustard  and  hot  water, 
towels  and  ice,  tea  and  toast  as  Miss  Cranberry  got 
under  way  from  the  moment  Arnold  was  found  uncon- 
scious on  the  balcony.  Mary  Mellody,  home  from  the 
shop,  bathed  his  brow ;  Sammy  ran  to  the  drug-store ; 
Angelo  played  the  fiddle ;  Theresa  watched  him  from 
the  window  with  limpid  Italian  eyes,  while  the  Cook- 
house Kid  sat  on  the  bed — the  fallen  champion  was 
hedged  about  with  interest.  When  Captain  Calhoun 
put  his  head  in  the  door  he  was  lied  to  with  easy  sub- 
terfuge; Mr.  Arnold  merely  had  a  headache,  and  in- 
deed he  did!  Even  Bernice  Murasky,  the  imperious 
shop-lady,  put  by  her  shrewish  disdain  and  came  up 
with  a  softened  judgment  of  this  foolish  business. 

But  none  upbraided  the  sufferer.  Down  in  the 
world  of  half-lights,  where  chastity  must  smile,  and 
honor  devise  pretexts ;  where  life  wounds  itself,  beat- 
ing a  slow  way  with  crippled  wings,  there  is  an  ampli- 
tude of  charity  like  unto  that  revealed  for  the  stranger 


138  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

in  the  tent  of  Abraham ;  the  indwellers  can  not  moral- 
ize nor  draw  scientific  deductions  from  the  grind  of 
the  gods. 

Therefore,  Ham,  though  he  got  drunk,  was  most 
patiently  restored,  jestingly  rehabilitated,  and  in  no- 
wise scolded. 

But  there  was  an  astonished  note  among  them  all. 
What  of  the  romance?  Was  Arnold  married,  and  if 
so,  what  of  the  bride  in  blue  ?  Among  all  the  varying 
circles  in  which  he  revolved,  impossible  stories  had 
run.  Here,  at  Miss  Cranberry's,  the  thing  focused — 
they  had  seen  her;  she  was  no  street  myth,  but  what 
had  become  of  the  country  girl  in  blue?  But  none 
questioned  the  recreant,  his  mood  did  not  invite;  for 
thirty  hours  he  was  uncommonly  sick. 

The  Blue  Star  Laundry  poet  had  his  theory.  To 
Nella  Free  and  Mary  and  Bernice  Murasky,  in  the 
dusk  of  the  hall,  he  whispered  a  complete,  evolved  re- 
construction of  the  downfall. 

"No  wedding-bells  for  her,"  asserted  Mr.  Jarbo. 
"She  shook  him,  and  he  took  to  drink.  It's  elemental, 
it's  epic,  in  its  simple  grandeur — a  fair,  false  face — a 
broken  heart — and  then  quick  to  the  booze."  The 
poet  was  scratching  through  his  pockets  for  a  pencil 
and  the  back  of  a  laundry  tag  whereon  to  write. 

"She  wouldn't!"  cried  Miss  Mellody  indignantly. 
"That  little  thing  with  the  big  eyes?— she  wouldn't!" 

"  'O,  Woman,  in  our  hours  of  ease/ "'  sighed 
Sammy,  the  pencil  in  his  mouth. 

"My  Lands!"  Miss  Cranberry  routed  the  gossips 
from  the  hall.  "Don't  clutter  up  the  place  with  any 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  139 

more  poetry !  The  drawer  of  your  washstand  is  most 
full  now,  Mr.  Jarbo." 

But  on  the  balcony  outside,  the  poet  mooned  an 
hour  over  the  deceit  of  woman.  "What  a  man  wants 
to  do  is  to  get  'em  out  of  his  system,"  mused  he,  and 
then  went  down  to  Unc'  Pop's  back  room  to  place  his 
feet  on  the  table  and  read  The  Compendium  of  Uni- 
versal Knowledge  and  World's  Gazetteer.  It  was  new 
and  bound  in  shiny  red  morocco,  with  gilt  letters,  and 
one  could  carry  it  in  one's  vest  pocket.  It  is  not  often 
one  can  procure  universal  knowledge  for  forty  cents. 
Mr.  Jarbo  saw  that  though  the  print  was  fine,  yet  the 
volume  was  small;  and  that  if  he  began  at  half-past 
seven  o'clock  and  read  diligently  until  ten,  he  would 
have  assimilated  the  cumulative  wisdom  of  the  human 
race  for  six  thousand  years. 

Arnold  lay  that  night  in  a  stupor.  The  sparrows 
were  shrilling  about  the  gable  and  on  the  rails  of  the 
balcony  when  he  came  back  to  actualities ;  the  door  of 
his  room  was  open  on  a  glad  morning  with  the  fog 
twisted  into  ringlets  on  the  hills.  Miss  Cranberry 
was  tiptoeing  about  his  bed,  her  gray  hair  escaping 
from  a  sweeping  cap. 

"Granny?"  The  voice  from  the  bed  was  the  first 
lucid  utterance  since  his  return  from  the  quest  of  for- 
getfulness. 

"There,  there,  dearie!"  She  sat  by  the  bed,  her 
hand  on  the  cold  compress  across  his  brow.  "Never 
mind — never  mind !" 

There  was  a  long  silence,  while  they  listened  to  the 
sparrows. 


I4o  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

"I  was  drunk  as  a  fool,"  he  muttered ;  "did  I  lose 
my  watch— dad's  watch  ?" 

"No,  no;  only  the  crystal's  broken.  There — be 
quiet." 

"Granny,"  he  continued,  "I  was  arrested  and  rode  in 
the  wagon — that's  getting  pretty  low." 

"Now,  boy,"  she  whispered,  crouching  lower  to 
stroke  his  cheek,  "don't  you  mind.  Theresa's  got  some 
pretty  shoes  with  beads'  on  them — that  Nella  girl 
brought  them  for  her." 

"That's  like  Nel,"  he  mused,  "and  did  Unc'  Pop  get 
the  rope  for  the  barrel  swing?" 

"Yes — and  the  expressman  gave  us  a  lime  barrel — " 
Miss  Cranberry  pressed  Arnold's  hand  on  the  cover- 
let. There  were  few  small  concerns  of  the  block  into 
which  he  did  not  stop  to  inquire  on  his  way  down- 
town of  a  sunny  morning  when  the  Happy  Alley  kids 
were  all  around  Aurelio  Pico,  the  retired  vaquero,  who 
was  wont  to  bring  his  spindle  into  the  alley  and  braid 
his  horsehair  riatas  along  its  ninety-foot  free  space. 
Even  the  solemn,  tarry-faced  students  in  the  Japanese 
boarding-houses  across  the  street  knew  him  and  he 
them ;  he  was  curiously  attached  to  the  nondescript  old 
block  which  was  neither  of  the  Latin  quarter,  nor  of 
the  respectable  "hill,"  nor  yet  Chinatown,  though  the 
oriental  wave  was  fast  submerging  it. 

Arnold  lay  quiet  with  Miss  Cranberry's  hand  on  his 
compressed  brow. 

"Granny,  I  had  a  fight — a  big  Swede  and  a  lad  of 
the  cavalry — " 

"There,  there,  never  mind,  I  know !" 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  141 

"And  the  police  ran  in  a  girl — a  girl  who  wasn't 
doing  a  thing — " 

"Never  mind,  boy;  you  rest.  Dearie,  I  know  how 
weak  and  foolish  we  are !" 

He  turned,  beaten  by  his  recollections,  to  the  wall. 
"Granny,  I  didn't  marry  Sylvia.  You  can't  understand 
— but  I  had  to  get  out  of  it." 

"I  know,  boy,"  she  quavered,  "I  believe  you  must 
have  tried.  And  there's  a  God  who  cares  for  trying. 
O,  yes ;  I've  not  lived  seventy  years  down  here  not  to 
understand !" 

A  shadow  fell  in  the  door's  sun.  A  manikin  in 
blue  overalls  and  red  knit  cap  stared  in.  The  young 
man  started.  It  seemed  odd — that  child?  His  mind 
went  back — it  was  his,  then  ? — the  waif  from  the  coun- 
try-up-in-back  ? 

"That  kid,"  he  muttered,  "didn't  she— didn't  they—" 

"She  never  came  back  and  the  woodsman  left  Tues- 
day. He  waited  for  the  wedding,  but  you  did  not 
come,  and  his  ship  was  leaving  for  the  North." 

He  turned  away  again  and,  crooning  a  lullaby,  the 
old  woman  left  the  room.  After  while  the  young  man 
drew  up  in  bed  and  motioned  to  the  infant. 

"I'll  call  you  Bill,"  he  began,  "and  I'll  see  you 
through — you  and  the  pup." 

The  Cookhouse  Kid  gouged  its  ear  and  gurgled. 

"Bill,"  continued  the  foster-guardian,  "for  you  and 
the  pup  I'll  have  to  make  good."  And  when  Miss 
Cranberry  returned,  his  voice  came  thickly  from  the 
coverlet.  "Bill,  when  I  get  through  this,  I'll  finish  the 
barrel  swing  for  the  Alley  bunch — you  and  Angelo 
and  Theresa  and  the  Joost  kids." 


142  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

"Mr.  Hammy,"  put  in  the  old  lady,  shaking  her 
finger  from  the  end  of  the  bedstead,  "I'd  rather  have 
you  get  roaring  drunk  seven  days  a  week  than  to  for- 
get to  finish  the  barrel  swing."  But  she  sighed  as  she 
departed. 

Mr.  Hammy  passed  a  restful  day.  He  dwelt  on  a 
multitude  of  things,  and  a  deal  of  others  he  shut  stead- 
fastly from  his  mind.  "What  was  I  saying?"  he  mut- 
tered. "Who'd  I  talk  to?  Did  I  drag  her  name  into 
all  that  bar-room  gossip  ?  Poor  kid — poor  little  girl — 
I'll  write— I'll  tell  her—" 

He  broke  off,  staring  at  the  paper  joss  in  the  dim 
corner  of  his  room,  a  single  idea  beginning  to  form 
out  of  chaos:  "I'll  write  and  explain — I'll  send  the 
money — or  did  I  send  the  money  ?" 

He  thought  slowly,  then  whirled  out  of  bed  with  a 
cry,  searching  for  his  clothes,  and  knelt,  going  through 
the  pockets  with  shaking  fingers. 

"Granny,"  he  called,  rushing  to  the  door,  "did  I 
have  any  money  left?" 

"It's  on  the  dresser  with  your  keys,"  she  answered, 
and  he  looked  feverishly  for  it.  There  were  gold  and 
silver  and  a  crumpled  note — of  the  one  hundred  and 
sixty-eight  dollars  of  his  legislative  salary,  there  re- 
mained fifty-one. 

But  nothing  else — not  a  bill  of  hers!  He  sat  un- 
steadily down  on  the  bed  and  called  back  a  jarring 
memory  of  white-aproned  men,  laughing  cronies,  lunch 
counters,  sawdust,  the  voices  of  women,  Japanese  gal- 
leries, liquor  smells,  gold-woven  tapestries,  glittering 
incandescents,  the  blare  of  bands,  quarrels — and  ob- 
livion. 


THE   DAY   OF    SOULS  143 

"How'd  I  get  home?"  he  muttered.  "Somebody 
found  me — somebody !  A  woman !  Robbed — robbed ! 
O,  you  damned  fool — her  money — ten  thousand  I" 

He  reeled  back  and  fell  face  downward  across  the 
bed. 

At  half-past  six  o'clock  Mary  Mellody  came  down 
the  hill  from  the  Powell  Street  car.  She  was  tired, 
thinly  dressed,  and  the  mist  fell  damp.  Under  the 
awning  of  the  Family  Liquor  Store  she  met  a  woman 
who  seemed  taller,  broader,  more  radiant  in  every  way 
of  physical  personality  than  she  really  was,  because  of 
a  curious  emanation  of  an  inner  self.  Her  dark  hair 
clustered  low  on  her  brow  and  about  the  fine  ears ;  her 
nostrils  were  wide,  her  chin  a  trifle  sharp,  her  neck 
beautifully  modeled  under  the  skin's  pallor;  her  eyes 
indistinguishably  uncertain  in  color.  She  wore  a  pale 
gray  silk  waterproof  enveloping  her  to  the  chin,  a  cap 
of  the  same  stuff,  suggesting  the  elegant  ease  of  sim- 
plicity. 

"Does  Mr.  Arnold  live  above — in  these  lodgings?" 
she  asked. 

"Yes,"  answered  Mary. 

"I  wish  to  see  him."  She  was  ascending  the  stairs, 
but,  with  a  smile,  stepped  aside  for  the  lame  girl  to 
precede.  Miss  Mellody  faltered  before  the  stranger's 
sureness.  "I  think — Mr.  Arnold's  sick — I  think." 

"He'll  see  me.  It's  another  day  of  San  Francisco 
winter,  isn't  it  ?"  Her  arm  was  assisting  Mary  as  they 
reached  the  floor  above.  Almost  by  a  gesture  of  com- 
mand she  won  from  the  other  the  direction  of  Arnold's 
rooms,  and  passed  on  to  them,  leaving  the  lame  girl 


144  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

with  an  intense  and  envying  doubt  of  the  inexplicable 
grace  of  her  carriage. 

In  the  passage  the  stranger  saw  an  old  woman 
clucking  to  a  parrot  hung  in  the  dirty  window  of  a 
kitchen  beyond.  She  paused,  and  at  the  instant  from  a 
door  directly  by  her,  a  young  man  appeared.  He  wore 
a  beflowered  lounging  robe  of  padded  Chinese  silk  and 
a  cigarette  was  between  his  teeth.  His  dark  face  was 
hard ;  a  feverish  surprise  shot  over  it,  then  he  calmly 
threw  away  the  cigarette  and  stepped  back,  as  if  ex- 
pecting her  to  enter.  She  did — their  recognition  was 
mutual  and  instantaneous.  She  looked  an  instant 
about  the  jumbled  apartments  dim  in  the  ray  of  a 
shaded  student  lamp  on  the  table.  The  place  seemed 
to  surprise  her  more  than  did  the  occupant. 

Then  she  turned ;  the  man  was  smiling  at  her  with  a 
faint  amusement. 

"I  wished  to  see  you,"  she  began  coldly.  "You  may 
remember  our  meeting — " 

"On  Grant  Avenue  ?  I  was  very  drunk.  Please  be 
seated." 

She  sank  into  the  chair  indicated;  he  stood  at  the 
table's  end,  the  splotch  of  light  from  under  the  lamp 
lighting  vividly  his  flowered  robe,  but  dimly  his  face. 
She  wished  to  see  it  plainer,  feeling  an  insecurity,  ap- 
parently, in  her  situation.  Then  she  realized  that  he 
was  studying  her  intently ;  when  her  eyes  rose  to  his, 
he  still  held  his  interest. 

"And  later— you  had  a  hard  fall—" 

"Still — and  very — drunk."  He  interrupted  her 
again  gravely.  "You're  the  street  evangelist."  He 
fingered  his  cigarette  case.  "I  suppose  our  meeting 


THE   DAY   OF    SOULS  145 

explains  itself.  Perhaps  you  called  to  illuminate  me 
on  my  ways  of  life — " 

"Quite  the  contrary.  I've  called  to  apologize — 
rather  to  explain  what  is  hard  to  explain."  She  sat 
forward  nervously  in  the  big  chair.  "Did  you  have 
money — quite  a  sum  of  money — that  night  ?" 

Arnold's  face  lit  with  reassurance.  He  came  nearer, 
eagerly,  as  though  he  would  have  touched  her  hand 
lying  on  the  table. 

"I  did — and  I  lost  it.  And  you — why  I  can't  begin 
to  thank  you !" 

She  sat  back  with  a  sudden  wincing,  shading  her 
face  with  her  glove. 

"Please  don't.    I  didn't  save  it  for  you.    It's  lost." 

"Lost?" 

"I  found  a  roll  of  money  in  the  cab — it  must  have 
been  considerable — and  it  seemed  to  me  unsafe  for 
you  to  have.  I  didn't  know  the  cabman,  or  where  you 
might  possibly  go  later,  and  I  thought  I  would  keep  it 
for  you." 

"Yes.    But  lost—" 

"It's  desperately  hard  to  say.  I  am  a  stranger  to 
you" — she  put  her  hand  to  her  hair  nervously,  and 
again  leaned  to  him — "but  I  lost  the  money  that  night. 
When  we  reached  the  bottom  of  the  hill,  it  had  slipped 
somewhere.  I  searched  in  the  cab  and  up  the  street 
again,  and  everywhere.  I  couldn't  find  it — it  couldn't 
have  been  dropped  on  the  sidewalk." 

"You  couldn't  find  it?" 

"No.  I  put  it  in  my  dress — here — but — well,  I've 
lost  your  money."  She  rose  and  faced  him  abruptly : 
"How  much  was  it?" 


146  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

Arnold  was  lighting  another  cigarette:  "You  don't 
mind  if  I  smoke  ?  I'm  a  bit  shot  to  pieces  to-day." 

"But  the  money !"  she  demanded.  "It's  a  desperate 
matter  with  me — how  much  was  it  ?" 

The  young  man  rested  his  hands  leisurely  on  the 
table,  and  looked  at  her  with  a  smile.  "Nothing — I'm 
not  quite  sure  myself." 

"You  know,"  she  retorted,  "it  was  a  large  amount. 
How  much?" 

"Very  little." 

"It  was  not.  I  am  a  stranger  here — I  am  preaching 
in  the  street,  but  that  is  no  title  to  honesty.  I've  lost 
your  money,  and  I'm  going  to  account  for  it.  How 
much  was  it?  I  demand  to  know."  Her  voice  rose 
sharply. 

"Well,"  Arnold's  response  was  velvety  nonchalant, 
"forty-five  dollars." 

"You  know  better.  I  saw  a  hundred-dollar  bill  on 
the  outside,  and  there  were  many  more.  I  wish  the 
truth." 

"That  hundred  was  merely  phony — I  mean  counter- 
feit. I  beg  pardon,  but  the  language  of  the  street 
comes  a  deal  easier  with  this  present  head." 

"I  wish  to  know  the  truth  of  this  money  I  have  lost 
for  you." 

"Well,  one  hundred,  and  two  twenties,  and  three 
tens  and — honestly,  I  believe  it  was  one  hundred  and 
sixty-five  in  all — merely  that — don't  distress  yourself." 
Arnold  flicked  his  cigarette  ash  airily.  She  did  not 
guess,  beneath  his  measuring  ease,  the  splitting  sick- 
ness on  him.  "I  suppose,  as  you  are  a  preacher,  you 
worried  a  deal.  It  was  a  hard  fix,"  he  murmured> 


THE   DAY   OF    SOULS  147 

"You  think  I  am  an  evangelist,  which  I  am  not  in 
the  least."  Her  voice  had  a  suggestion  of  irritation 
at  being  put  on  the  defensive  before  this  unregenerate 
and  his  languid  eye-interest  of  the  silken  movement  of 
her  raincoat. 

"It  was  something  about  our  souls,  I  recall,"  said 
he ;  "and  didn't  I  say  something  foolish  ?  I  was  in  the 
devil's  own  humor.  I  suppose  I  was  unusually  drunk, 
but  I  wanted  to  be  drunk,  I'm  glad  I  was  drunk.  But 
it's  a  shame  to  embarrass  you." 

"This  is  not  you  who  is  speaking."  She  watched 
steadily  his  mordant  eyes.  "You  belittle  your  soul." 

"I  have  none.  I  am  a  liar  and  a  thief."  He  smiled 
slowly  at  her  flushing  face,  the  brightening  of  her  eye, 
the  imperious  daintiness  about  her. 

"You're  the  earth-man — your  feet  in  the  clay,"  she 
went  on,  "but  your  soul  is  above  all  this.  And  you 
can't  even  deceive  yourself.  You  got  drunk  to  try  it, 
for  some  reason,  and  you  failed !" 

He  watched  her  still  with  a  gentle  satire  of  interest. 
She  went  on  with  a  direct  charge  to  his  rebuffing. 
"You  can  find  the  serene  and  inner  life.  Beyond  that, 
nothing  matters — nothing  is  real." 

"Beg  pardon,  but  in  my  world  everything  matters 
and  is  real.  You  yourself  are  very  real — behind  this 
patter  of  yours  I  believe  you're  magnificently  human." 

She  steeled  herself  against  the  admiration  his  eyes 
paid  to  her  regal  figure,  her  face,  her  sensuous  woman- 
hood. And  yet  he  had  defeated  her;  she  could  not 
find  way  against  his  irony. 

"Well,"  she  turned  at  the  door,  "I  lost  your  money 
— I'll  recover  it  or  repay  you  every  cent." 


148  THE   DAY   OF    SOULS 

"Why  bother?  I  imagine  you're  a  scientist,  or  a 
theosophist,  or  something  extremely  superior.  Any- 
how, you  just  said  nothing  mattered,  nothing  is  real. 
Well,  my  money  was  a  mere  human  hallucination — 
why  worry  about  it  ?  What's  a  handful  of  paper  to  do 
with  the  eternal  verities?" 

She  hesitated  to  control  the  anger  on  her  tongue. 
The  jester  broke  the  hollow  sphere  of  her  serenity; 
he  went  on  undaunted. 

"I  remember  a  deal  of  your  talk.  I  wonder  how 
you  come  to  be  doing  that  sort  of  thing.  You're  a 
creature  far  different" — he,  also,  hesitated — "it  doesn't 
fit  you.  Who  sent  you  ?" 

She  recovered  her  control.  "The  saintliest  man  I 
ever  knew — a  clergyman,  a  worker  in  the  worst  of 
London's  East  End." 

She  stopped,  and  the  man  went  on  with  shrewd 
mercilessness.  "He  asked  you  to — a  dying  request — 
and  he  loved  you." 

She  started  at  his  guess.  "Yes,"  she  answered  sim- 
ply, but  in  wonder.  "He  asked  me  to  give  men  his 
message  on  the  streets  of  every  city  in  the  world.  He 
had  worked  among  them — the  very  worst.  He  left  me 
money  for  this  and  I  could  not  refuse.  And  I've 
taught  as  I  saw — Christ,  a  symbolic  promise  for  the 
race,  one  of  the  spiritually  developed  figures,  a 
prophet." 

"I  thought  He  was  a  man  who  fought  through  a 
hard  game — and  lost.  But  you  have  it  that  there's 
nothing  to  lose  or  suffer.  Let's  apply  this  to  my  case. 
I  wasn't  drunk,  and  money — nothing!  Stuff  of 
dreams." 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  '149 

She  bit  her  lip.  "You  don't  believe  me!"  And  to 
her  swift  anger  his  admiration  again  paid  tribute.  "It 
is  insufferable  to  rest  under  this  imputation !" 

"Do  you  imagine  for  a  moment  that  I  believe  you 
have  that  money  ?" 

She  was  silent  and  he  went  on  gravely.  "Now, 
please  don't.  I  have  an  awful  headache — one  of  the 
worst  headaches  that  an  earth-man  with  his  feet  in  the 
clay  could  have.  I  take  it  you're  a  prophet  of  the  new 
spirituality — I'm  reading  a  bit  about  it  in  the  maga- 
zines. Well,  I'm  back  with  the  cave-men.  I  get  down 
one  day  and  bump  my  head  on  the  ground  to  God,  and 
the  next,  crack  the  bones  of  my  enemies  and  offer  them 
to  the  devil.  Real  bones — real  devil." 

At  the  door  she  turned  again,  calmly  disregarding 
him.  "I  shall  advertise — try  every  way  to  find  that 
money.  And  then,  if  it  isn't  found,  I'll  have  to  accept 
your  word  and  repay  you.  One  hundred  and  sixty- 
five  dollars?" 

"Yes,  thank  you;  it  will  keep  me  in  cigarettes  a 
month — real  cigarettes,  the  kind  a  man  with  his  feet 
in  the  clay  smokes — " 

Her  face  showed  nothing :  he  was  suddenly  contrite. 
"I  beg  pardon.  Don't  mind  me.  They'll  tell  you 
around  this  town  I  was  never  serious  in  my  life." 

"But  you  believe  that  I  lost  that  money?  You  be- 
lieve me?" 

"Absolutely.    And  you  me?" 

"Not  in  the  least." 

"Thank  you.  You  are  a  person  of  excellent  judg- 
ment." 

She  extended  a  card  with  her  gloved  hand.     "My 


150  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

name  is  Grace  Wayne.  My  address  is  Twenty-six 
Weston  Road,  Melbourne." 

"Australia,  eh?  I  thought  you  were  an  American 
straight  through." 

She  continued  coldly :  "I  am  touring  the  world  on 
a  mission — sent,  I  told  you,  by  a  dying  man's  request 
that  I  could  not  evade." 

"To  tell  men  of  the  new  scientific  God.  I  don't  be- 
lieve that's  what  he  meant  you  to  do.  I  had  a  curious 
idea  the  other  night  that  you  had  failed,  somehow — 
you  were  an  actress  reciting  lines  of  some  magnificent 
vanity  or  other.  God  knows  what!  But  no  man 
cared." 

She  watched  him  steadily ;  He  went  on  with  a  sudden 
new  interest. 

"Right  up  the  line  from  you  there's  a  crowd  beating 
out  sinners  with  a  drum — the  Salvation  Army.  What 
do  you  think  of  them  ?" 

She  smiled  with  a  trifle  of  supercilious  amusement. 
"They  are  very  good  people — they  are  attempting 
much ;"  then  added,  "on  their  level,  in  their  way,  very 
good  people." 

"No,  they're  bad  people — most  of  them  have  been. 
That's  why  I  can  blow  in  on  Adjutant  Hogjaw  Frem- 
stedt  to-day  and  ask  him  to  take  charge  of  a  girl  from 
a  dance-hall  that  I'm  going  to  get  out  of  jail.  I 
wouldn't  dare  ask  any  good  people  to  mix  in  that. 
But  Fremstedt — he  was  a  bum  himself,  once." 

She  ignored  him,  and  then  smiled,  putting  out  her 
hand,  and  he  felt  a  firm  pressure  and  was  puzzled  at  it. 
"Good-by.  I  shall  come  to  inquire  about  this  money." 

So  in  the  end  she  had  confused  his  jesting.    Under 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  151 

the  lamp  he  read  the  card  again.  "Grace  Wayne — 
she's  interesting.  She's  got  class  above  the  rest  of 
those  fakirs.  But  science  or  theosophy,  or  whatever 
it  is — oh  my  head — my  head !"  His  hand  went  to  the 
wet  compress.  "And  Sylvia — her  money  gone!" 

But  after  a  while  he  muttered :  "Ah,  well — let  it  go 
— let  everything  go!  I  didn't  care  for  her — but,  O, 
little  girl!"  And  in  the  silent  room  his  sick  fancies 
visualized  dim  figures  from  the  night  about  him ;  the 
preacher's  simple  daughter,  kind  and  young  and  fair 
in  her  steadfast  faith,  and  then  this  other  woman  he 
had  later  mocked,  a  sort  of  noble  sweetness  in  her 
grace  and  bearing — she,  too,  had  believed  in  his  soul ; 
and  the  faith  of  neither  had  he  been  able  to  crush,  out- 
rage them  as  he  might. 

But  shortly  he  refused  to  think  of  them.  "I'll  go 
on  now,"  he  murmured.  "It  was  a  last  chance,  but  I 
broke  with  it.  I'll  go  the  limit  now." 

After  a  moment  he  was  himself  again-^-a  hard-faced 
young  man  of  the  town,  lighting  a  cigarette  with  a 
wax  thread  from  the  delicate  Satsuma  bowl  on  the 
table,  and  then  lying  back  to  blow  smoke  rings  mood- 
ily into  the  violet  gloom  of  his  apartments. 


CHAPTER   IX 

Assemblyman  Fred  Weldy  of  the  fifty-second  dis- 
trict came  down  from  the  capital  every  Saturday  to 
see  his  wife  and  babies,  his  mother,  a  few  political 
persons  with  whom  there  were  matters  to  discuss,  and 
to  pass  an  hour  at  cards  with  his  uncle,  Mr.  Radke,  of 
the  Family  Liquor  Store.  This  was  a  long-established 
custom;  ever  since  his  job-printing  'prentice  days, 
Fred  had  made  it  a  point  to  be  in  the  little  back  room 
of  the  saloon  Saturday  evening,  to  drink  three  beers, 
smoke  limitless  pipes  and  play  a  "Series."  There 
were  five  games  for  which  the  job  printer  and  the 
grocer  contended,  and  Unc'  Pop  had,  in  a  greasy  note- 
book behind  his  bar,  a  record  of  hundreds  of  games 
and  thousands  of  points  of  Mississippi  High-Low, 
Seven  Up,  Casino,  Hearts  and  Whistle  Jack. 

At  these  silent  sessions  business  could  go  smash. 
Never  would  Unc'  Pop  leave  the  back  bar  to  wait  on 
fretful  women  in  his  grocery  department;  they  would 
come  in  and  pound  a  nickel  on  his  counter  in  vain, 
while  the  merchant  grunted  his  displeasure  behind  the 
screened  door.  Customers  usually  went  behind  the 
counters  and  helped  themselves  on  these  occasions,  but 
never  would  the  grocer  protest.  "Fritzie  had  to  be 
stuck,"  custom,  or  no  custom. 

Another  rule  of  Fred's  was  to  dine  with  Arnold  on 
his  over-Sunday  sojourns  in  the  city.  They  invariably 

152 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  153 

went  to  the  Odeon,  where  the  best  German  dishes 
were ;  where  one  came  on  a  deal  of  sardellen  and 
cheese  smells ;  and  where,  after  the  Sunday  Schuetzen 
Fest  at  Shell  Mound,  there  would  be  a  brave  array  of 
green  coats,  cockades  and  impressive  bronze  and  silver 
medals  along  the  bar. 

Here,  the  two  friends  were  at  a  secluded  corner  on 
a  Saturday  of  the  mid-winter  legislative  session,  and 
with  them  Louis  Ferreri  and  Eddie  Ledyard,  of  the 
Market  Street  shoe  house.  The  four  were  intimately 
at  ease;  they  had  "joshed"  one  another  over  a  score 
of  reminiscent  and  familiar  matters,  of  the  street  and 
town.  The  three  of  them  were  "digging"  Louis  Fer- 
reri, who  was  part  owner  of  a  horse  that  had  finished 
last  in  three  consecutive  starts  across  the  bay.  The 
slot-machine  man  chewed  his  cigar  and  grinned ;  he 
shifted  his  tiger's-head  diamond,  sticking  the  forget- 
me-not  pin  in  its  place  through  his  four-in-hand,  and 
grinned  again  helplessly,  until  Mannie  Murasky  came 
in  and  went  joyously  back  to  join  them.  That  shifted 
the  conversation  from  Louis'  luckless  "skate"  for  a 
minute.  Mannie  had  a  fervent  story.  Yes,  sir,  over 
in  San  Leandro  there  was  a  "comer" — a  boiler-maker 
whom  Mr.  Murasky,  at  the  next  meeting  of  the  Po- 
trero  Athletic  Club,  was  to  translate  to  pugilistic  fame. 

"C'n  he  put  'em  over  ?"  retorted  the  discoverer.  "A 
wallop  from  t'at  guy  would  stop  a  ferry-boat — a 
straight  left  an'  t'en  a  shift;  in  an'  out  he  c'n  fight — 
see-saw,  duck  an'  stall ;  on  foot-work  t'at  mutt'd  make 
Cans  look  like  he  was  nailed  to  th'  mat.  He's  a  won- 
der, a  wiz — " 

"Yes,   like   that   other   farmer   you   imported   who 


154  THE   DAY   OF    SOULS 

fought  three  rounds,  and  then  suddenly  remembered 
his  mother  was  opposed  to  boxing,"  said  Ledyard. 

And  the  quartet  hooted  Mr.  Murasky  and  his 
"champf."  Ledyard,  the  boyish  bookkeeper  at  the  shoe 
store,  brought  the  conversation  again  to  the  races,  and 
again  Mannie  breasted  the  onset.  He  had  a  horse  in 
pickle — yes,  he  did — something  juicy  in  the  fifth,  and 
magnanimously  would  let  his  friends  in  to  the  roof. 
"Th'  talent  t'ink  this  horse  is  a  jungler  from  Spo- 
kane," confided  Mannie,  shaking  his  thin  shoulders 
until  his  yellow  diamond  let  loose  a  headlight  radiance. 
"It's  exclusive— Bomba,  in  th'  fift'— don't  forget  t'at 
name.  Sell  your  sister's  hatpins  an'  get  on." 

The  shoe  store  man's  eyes  glittered  nervously ;  Man- 
nie had  landed  a  long  shot  one  time;  he  busied  him- 
self much  about  the  track.  Perhaps  ? — 

At  his  side,  Arnold  suddenly  muttered  unintelli- 
gibly. He  had  been  in  some  queer  moods  the  past 
month,  his  cronies  said — ever  since  his  big  drunk,  in 
fact.  He  was  still  immaculate  in  dress,  but  he  drank 
more  than  he  had  ever  been  known  to  before,  and  had 
been  at  the  race-track  every  afternoon  while  drawing 
his  salary  from  the  state  treasury  for  his  clerical  work 
at  the  capitol. 

Strange  stories  had  gone  about  concerning  Ham — 
things  at  which  even  the  tenderloin  winced  a  bit ;  they 
centered  about  some  unknown  country  girl  whom  he 
was  said  to  have  brought  to  the  city,  robbed  and  turned 
adrift.  The  Street  was  pretty  swift,  but  that  was  a 
raw  deal — it  didn't  seem  like  the  fellow.  But  there 
was  Fergy,  of  the  Maplewood,  who  had  seen  the 
money,  and  a  half-dozen  who  had  seen  the  girl,  and 


THE   DAY   OF    SOULS  155 

some  had  even  heard  Arnold's  declaration  that  he  was 
to  marry  her.  And  then  she  had  disappeared,  and 
J.  Ham  had  been  going  it  strong.  He  had  spent  more 
money  than  ever  before,  plunged  higher  on  the  ponies, 
drifted  deeper  into  the  after-midnight  life,  reckless, 
mordant,  untiring,  unappeased. 

But  in  the  hectic  life  of  the  Street,  the  affair  was 
already  almost  forgotten  by  his  familiars.  It  was 
some  queer  work,  but  then  it  was  no  one's  business. 
The  grand  jury  inquiry  into  the  registration  frauds 
had  also  dropped  from  view;  some  unseen  machina- 
tions of  the  sinuous  power  that  creeps  for  ever  about 
the  underpinning  of  the  social  structure  had  intervened 
and  an  acquiescent  if  doubting  public  was  gulled  from 
the  issue.  The  banded  evil  of  the  city  flung  John 
Hamilton  Arnold  forward  as  a  challenge ;  honest  men 
dared  not  accept  the  wage  of  battle,  and  his  nonchalant 
perjury  was  now  of  the  past.  He,  himself,  had  both- 
ered about  it  least  of  all ;  he  had  been  busily  taking  to 
himself  the  aids  of  oblivion. 

"What  odds  are  you  getting,  Ham?  How's  Presi- 
dente posted?"  repeated  Eddie  Ledyard  curiously. 

"Five  to  one,  straight.  Just  a  flyer;  I  don't  know 
anything  about  the  horse." 

But  young  Ledyard's  face  grew  crafty;  there  was 
"something  doing" — sure  there  was ! 

"I  c'n  get  you  better,"  interposed  Mannie  Murasky ; 
"five  an'  a  half." 

"Presidente — Presidente — "  repeated  Ledyard,  "let's 
look  up  the  form."  He  rose,  and  then  turned  to  the 
table:  "Coming  out  some  night,  Hammy?  We've  got 


156  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

a  new  piano,  and  Stella's  home  from  school.  And 
mother's  always  asking  why  you  never  come." 

Arnold  waved  an  indifferent  good-by  as  Mannie 
went  with  the  clerk. 

"That  lad's  got  no  call  to  play  a  cent,"  he  muttered. 
"I  used  to  run  with  him  in  school,  and  now  he's  keep- 
ing his  mother  and  sister  on  his  salary." 

"There's  nobody  compelled  to  play  the  races,"  Fer- 
reri  protested  sluggishly.  "Why  don't  these  lambs 
stay  out  of  the  life?" 

"Well,  as  the  game  is  shoved  at  'em  night  and  day 
on  every  corner,  in  every  newspaper  and  by  every 
sure-thing  man  they  meet,  I  guess  staying  away  isn't 
so  easy.  They  don't  think — they  don't  consider  until 
the  dope  is  soaking  out  of  them — and  there's  another 
long-term  sucker  or  another  vote  for  the  push,  when 
we  need  to  lift  anything." 

Ferreri  sat  up  with  slow  interest. 

"And  what's  getting  into  you?"  he  mumbled. 

"O,  nothing!  I  just  watch  the  game  played  out — 
that's  all." 

"You  ought  to  see  the  sports  hanging  out  at  Sacra- 
mento," put  in  Weldy.  "They  can't  do  enough  for  us, 
either." 

"You're  on  that  committee  to  investigate  the  charges 
that  bribery  beat  the  Lacy  bills,  ain't  you?"  queried 
Ferreri,  with  renewed  interest.  "What'll  the  farmers 
scare  up  next  ?" 

The  legislator  shot  a  nervous  glance  at  Arnold. 

"They  want  an  investigation,  all  right,"  said  he.  "I 
guess  the  track  must  have  done  some  raw  work  last 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  157 

"Cost  my  company  ten  thousand."  The  slot-machine 
agent  languidly  adjusted  himself  in  his  seat.  His 
concern  had  six  thousand  gambling  machines  in  the 
city,  reaping  a  harvest  that  made  ten  thousand  dollars 
for  buying  the  legislature  a  pittance;  Ferreri  himself 
had  a  contempt  for  the  statesmen. 

Weldy  was  restless,  seeming  to  rise  against  some 
implication  of  himself  in  this  nonchalant  recital;  he 
glanced  about  the  cafe  and  then  turned  defensively  to 
the  others. 

"Twenty-eight  suicides,  and  nine  men  in  the  pen 
from  playing  the  races — that's  what  Lacy  said  was  the 
record  in  this  city  during  the  season,  when  he  de- 
manded this  bribery  investigation  to  see  what  beat  his 
bill.  That's  pretty  tough — everything  so  open  for 
boys  like  Eddie  Ledyard." 

"God's  sake,"  retorted  the  slot-machine  man,  "hear 
him  talk !  Say,  you  ain't  bucking,  are  you  ?" 

"I'm  on  the  committee,"  Weldy  shifted  his  big  red 
hands.  "It's  pretty  close.  Lots  of  the  members  are 
afraid  the  investigation  will  be  made." 

Ferreri  sat  up  straight. 

"Well,  don't  you  know  how  you're  going  to  vote? 
If  your  committee  reports  against  the  investigation, 
that'll  settle  it,  won't  it?" 

"Well,  there's  a  lot  to  be  said,"  answered  Weldy, 
and  then  he  felt  Arnold's  foot  against  his  leg,  a  pres- 
sure that  stopped  him.  "O,  it's  all  right,  of  course; 
every thing'll  go  all  right,"  he  concluded  lamely.  "Still- 
man — Ham,  here — everybody  knows'  I'm  not  bucking 
anybody !" 

"I  guess  not"  retorted  the  slot-machine  politician. 


158  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

"Just  remember  who  elected  you,  who  put  you  in  line 

for  the  easy  money." 
The  assemblyman's  big  face  reddened.  "Here,  you," 

he  growled  and  glanced  at  his  sponsor  for  support — 

"no  crook  sporting  man  runs  me !" 

Ferreri  laughed  shortly.    "Crooks,  eh  ?" 

"All  crooks,"  interposed  Arnold.     "No  such  thing 

as  a  straight  sport.    Crooks  ? — why  we're  all  crooks ! 

"  'We're  most  of  us  liars  an'  'arf  of  us  thieves — 

An'  the  rest  are  as  rank  as  can  be ; 

But  once  in  a  while,  we  can  finish  in  style — '  " 

Ferreri  laughed  again.  This  was  well  enough  from 
Arnold — every  one  was  used  to  J.  Ham ;  but  Weldy — 
he  was  only  a  cheap  legislator. 

But  Louis  wouldn't  argue  with  Ham ;  he  would  al- 
ways make  some  retort  that  you  could  only  answer 
with  a  laugh,  and  the  laugh  sounded  sickly. 

Louis  had,  he  said,  a  date  over  on  Golden  Gate.  He 
presently  left  the  two  friends  alone.  Weldy  sat, 
sprawled  on  the  small  of  his  back,  sucking  his  cigar, 
his  big  legs  stretched  under  the  table. 

"It  makes  me  sick,"  he  growled.  "Ham,  it's  taken 
for  granted  that  I'm  out  for  the  money.  You  don't 
know  anything  about  it — the  pushing  and  hauling  and 
whispering — we're  a  hot  bunch  of  lawmakers,  we  are ! 
All  the  dirty  little  rats  in  the  state  are  up  there  to  give 
us  orders." 

"How's  the  bribery  business  coming?" 

Weldy  threw  up  his  hands  with  a  gesture  pathetic 
in  his  virile  manliness.  "God's  sake,  I  wish  I  was  out ! 


THE   DAY   OF    SOULS  159 

It's  all  on  me,  the  way  the  committee  stands,  two  to 
two.  I  just  wanted  to  ask  you,  Ham.  The  whole  ad- 
ministration is  trying  to  stop  a  report  in  favor  of  an 
inquiry,  and  here's  my  union,  and  all  the  decent  people 
I  know,  hounding  us  the  other  way.  There's  a  delega- 
tion of  preachers  up  there  now — my  wife's  uncle's  one 
of  'em — from  Alameda  County — " 

Arnold  studied  his  friend's  worried  face.  He  was 
surprised ;  he  had  taken  it  for  granted  that  Weldy  was 
getting  his  "bit"  in  every  chance  that  came.  It  was  a 
fool  statesman  who  didn't  pick  up  his  five  thousand  a 
session  these  days  when  the  prize-fights,  the  gambling 
machines  and  the  races  were  all  on  the  rack,  and  the 
big  money  from  higher  up  was  also  abroad. 

And  then  Arnold  had  a  curious  sensation;  he  sud- 
denly recalled  a  day  when  he  and  Fred  Weldy  would 
have  thought  exactly  the  same  on  the  ethics  of  "easy 
money,"  but  now  he  was  calloused  to  it,  while  Fred 
hemmed  and  hawed.  Arnold  remembered  further  that 
he  had,  in  his  own  mind,  through  all  their  friendship, 
assured  himself  of  a  certain  superiority  to  the  job 
printer. 

"The  union's  playing  hell,"  resumed  Fred.  "I 
thought  they'd  stand  for  the  program,  but  the  boys 
passed  resolutions  against  that  bribery  deal.  You  see 
where  it  puts  me,  Ham." 

Arnold  smiled  at  the  assemblyman's  childlike  insist- 
ence. 

"But  it  just  struck  me  all  of  a  sudden  the  other  day 
why  the  gang  got  behind  me  so  strong  on  that  grand 
jury  business,  and  why  you  were  put  up  to  swear  what 
you  did !  The  House  is  torn  up  pretty  bad,  and  I  see 


160  THE   DAY   OF    SOULS 

now  how  badly  the  track  and  the  gambling  men  need 
me." 

"Fred,"  Arnold  leaned  to  him  across  the  table,  "the 
men  who  run  this  town  haven't  any  use  for  you  or 
me.  They'll  use  us  and  throw  us  aside  when  the  time 
shows  fit.  They  don't  owe  me  anything,  and  I've  no 
love  for  them — it's  every  man  for  himself  in  this 
game.  But  you're  my  friend.  I  didn't  go  before  the 
grand  jury  to  help  the  gamblers  at  Sacramento,  but 
to  help  you.  You  were  in  more  danger  than  you'll 
ever  know.  And  there  was  your  mother,  and  I — " 

"I  know  you  did,  Ham.  But  you  took  awful 
chances.  You're  the  most  reckless  man  I  ever  knew !" 

"Program."  Ham  smiled  distantly.  "Fred,  it  was 
all  cut  and  dried — some  men  on  that  jury  knew  exactly 
how  I  would  testify.  Man,  you  don't  know  yet  how 
smooth  things  run,  do  you  ?" 

"I  wish  I  was  out  of  it,"  sighed  Weldy.  "The 
union's  knocking  me,  and  my  business  is  running 
down.  Lord,  Ham,  I  was  happier  in  the  shop.  Don't 
you  remember  when  you  used  to  come  in  every  after- 
noon, and  I'd  be  kicking  the  job-press,  and  we'd  talk 
socialism — how  we  read  Marx  and  were  red-hot  for 
the  brotherhood  of  man?  You  were  just  out  of  col- 
lege and  I'd  just  got  through  'prenticing,  and  we  were 
both  straight  and  full  of  big  ideas,  and  no  man  could 
mutter  anything  about  easy  money  to  us  like  Louis 
did  just  now.  We've  gone  pretty  far,  ain't  we,  old 
man?" 

"Pretty  far,"  said  the  other.  "They  grind  you 
through  the  mill — Fred,  I  know !" 

"We  thought  we  were  Socialists,"  laughed  Weldy 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  161 

mirthlessly.  "We  were  chuck-a-block  with  big 
schemes,  weren't  we?  We  were  going  to  get  into 
union  politics  and  hammer  away,  and  lead  the  boys  to 
our  way  of  thinking,  and  crack  over  some  of  the  dirt 
we  saw  all  around.  The  Social  Commonwealth,  the 
Fraternity  of  Man — Lord,  Lord !" 

"Fred,  there's  nothing  wrong  with  our  theories — 
our  beautiful  scheme  of  human  betterment  and  all  that 
— but  we're  wrong — that's  it.  The  run  of  men  aren't 
intelligent  enough,  aren't  honest  enough,  to  conduct  a 
highly  organized  state.  Character,  that's  what's  lack- 
ing."' 

"Well,  they  ain't  all  as  bad  as  that." 

"Aren't  they?  Well,  now,  take  the  organization 
here,  the  thing  that  rules,  the  real  life  of  the  present 
social  state — for  the  outward  form  of  government 
doesn't  cut  any  figure — take  it  from  Barren  Chatom, 
who  runs  things  here  for  a  half-dozen  moneyed  men 
in  New  York — take  it  from  Chatom  down  through 
every  class  of  men  who  concern  themselves  with  public 
affairs,  who  do  things,  down  through  them  all  to  the 
hypo  fiends  we  beat  out  of  the  lodging-houses  on  elec- 
tion day — who's  honest  among  them  all?  Can  you 
name  one?" 

The  statesman  shut  his  eyes  against  the  smoke  of 
his  cigar  for  a  minute ;  then  he  murmured  in  protest : 
"Thunder— thunder!" 

"O,  there  are  some''  retorted  Arnold.  "Unc'  Pop, 
Captain  Calhoun,  Sammy  Jarbo,  poor  devil  driving  a 
laundry  wagon  for  ten  a  week  and  writing  his  verses 
to  Mary  Mellody — but  show  me  the  men  who  are 
shoved  against  life  where  it's  white  hot;  who  win,  and 


162  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

who  aren't  willing  to  stand  for  crooked  work  ?  I  don't 
say  they  do  it — they  don't  need  to  do  it — they  stand 
for  it,  which  is  the  same  thing  when  results  are  fig- 
ured. Socialism?  Hell!  As  long  as  men  haven't 
sand  enough  to  run  a  ward  primary  straight,  they'll 
never  run  an  industrial  revolution.  Show  me — I'm 
crooked — but  I  deal  with  crooks." 

"O,  thunder — thunder!"  protested  the  legislator 
feebly. 

"Show  me  a  man  in  politics  who  isn't  advanced  by 
crookedness,  who  isn't  willing  to  keep  his  mouth  shut 
about  the  thousand  deals  away  down  beneath  him  that 
boost  him  along — one  man  who  fights  against  raw 
work  in  and  out  of  season!  Why,  he'd  be  crazy, 
wouldn't  he  ?  He  couldn't  be  elected  to  referee  a  dog 
fight !" 

"You're  putting  it  pretty  strong,  Ham,  pretty  strong. 
Here's  the  people,  the  great,  strong  heart  of  the  peo- 
pie-" 

"The  people  be  damned !"  said  Arnold.  "Let  them 
be  gouged — they  stand  for  it." 

"You're  anti-social,"  answered  Weldy  solemnly. 
"You're  a  regular  bandit — an  outlaw.  Ham,  you're 
the  most  dangerous  man  in  the  community." 

The  other  smiled  and  broke  off  suddenly.  "How's 
Lillie  and  the  babies  ?" 

"Fine.  We're  building  over  in  Berkeley,  but  it's  a 
tight  rub  to  get  the  money.  I'm  going  to  get  the  mort- 
gage renewed  next  week.  And  when  I  get  through 
with  this  cursed  legislature,  I'll  stick  close  to  the  office 
and  go  home  to  Lillie  and  mother  and  the  kids  every 
night,  and  pay  my  union  dues  and  attend  the  meetings. 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  163 

But  the  boys'll  never  get  me  into  politics  again.  No 
dirty  gambler  can  say  he  owns  me!" 

Arnold  laughed  and  slapped  his  friend  on  the  back 
as  they  went  up  Market  Street  through  the  damp  and 
shining  night.  Before  the  Maplewood  door  he 
stopped.  "Come  on — have  a  drink!" 

Fred  protested;  he  had  had  enough  at  dinner;  he 
was  going  to  take  the  next  boat  to  Berkeley,  where  his 
wife  was  boarding  while  the  cottage  was  being  built. 
But  Arnold  insisted ;  he  dragged  Fred  in,  and  the  first 
man  they  met  was  Harry  Stillman,  the  police  com- 
missioner, immaculate,  debonair,  smiling  in  a  crowd 
at  the  bar.  He  left  it  and  came  to  the  new-comers. 
The  legislator  seemed  crestfallen  before  the  politician's 
witty  sallies. 

"Down  over  Sunday,  eh  ?  Fred,  we're  losing  you — 
they  tell  me  you  don't  mix  much  with  the  boys.  Now, 
here,  you  know — "  He  jerked  some  quip  in  the 
assemblyman's  ear  and  they  both  laughed,  Weldy  in 
odd  protest.  "Let's  go  in  the  gold  room,"  added  Still- 
man. His  eye  roved  to  Arnold  with  a  quick  signifi- 
cance which  the  latter  understood,  for  he  turned  away. 

"We'll  crack  a  small  bottle,"  continued  the  police 
commissioner.  "Jack,  join  us  in  twenty  minutes."  He 
threw  his  furred  automobile  coat  to  an  attendant  at 
the  door  to  the  rear  of  the  Maplewood  establishment, 
and  Weldy  followed  him  within. 

Arnold  idled  ten  minutes  with  a  group  at  the  bar; 
then  went  to  the  street. 

Of  late  he  was  harried  by  restless  imps — "little 
puckers  under  your  scalp,"  he  described  them  to 
Sammy  Jarbo — that  would  not  allow  him  to  be  alone, 


164  THE   DAY    OF    SOULS 

to  be  unoccupied,  that  forbade  him  the  hours  of  read- 
ing or  idling  with  his  voice  and  piano  at  his  rooms, 
which  had  formerly  served  as  surcease  to  his  vagrant 
life.  Night  and  day  now  he  must  be  down-town, 
around  the  haunts  of  his  kind.  For  one  week  he  dwelt 
moodily  on  Sylvia  Spring,  and  then  he  killed  remem- 
brance with  another  drunk  and  went  his  way  more 
evenly. 

"She's  gone  home,"  he  told  himself,  "and  some  day 
I'll  send  her  money  back — I'll  break  the  books  for  her 
or  cut  into  something  at  the  city  hall.  I'll  be  square 
there,  and  then  forget  her.  But  the  rest — damn  them 
— I'll  knife  this  town  deep  somewhere !" 

And  so,  baffling  his  memories,  he  plunged  on  the 
races,  a  figure  in  the  betting  room,  with  his  clean- 
graven  face,  his  immaculate  clothes,  each  afternoon. 
He  began  to  plot  how  he  would  get  an  easy  graft  at 
the  city  hall.  He  had  connections  powerful  enough  to 
let  him  in  on  many  sources  of  revenue  hitherto  passed 
indifferently  by,  for  he  cared  little  about  money.  He 
had  spent  as  he  received,  and  for  years  had  forgotten 
whether  or  not  he  had  ever  had  ambitions.  It  had 
been  as  easy  to  jest  with  them  as  it  had  been  with  his 
conscience,  to  whip  and  bind  them  to  his  evil. 

"But  now  I'll  get  money,"  he  promised,  as  he  stood 
without  the  Maplewood.  "It's  what  they're  all  at,  and 
I  can  be  cleverer  than  most.  I'll  get  all  I  can — I'll  get 
back  for  what  they've  done  to  me !" 

And  this  idea  that  now  he  was  matching  his  cun- 
ning, his  single  wit,  against  an  enormous,  compact 
and  intricately  organized  social  force,  malign,  soulless 
and  of  illimitable  power,  stuck  to  him.  He  suggested 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  165 

to  himself  the  cave-man,  an  outlaw  cave-man,  contriv- 
ing to  outwit  a  mammoth — yes,  the  renegade  savage 
in  the  place  of  the  savag^T  He  glutted  his  humors 
with  the  picture.  The  most  cunning  savage  might 
slay  the  mammoth  and  then  cheat  his  fellows,  too! 

Three  doors  from  where  he  stood  by  the  curb,  the 
glare  of  an  electric  sign  above  the  side  entrance  of  the 
Maplewood  cafe  fell  on  a  red  motor-car.  A  woman 
was  the  only  occupant.  Arnold  watched  her  for  a 
time,  and  then  went  leisurely  to  the  machine. 

"Hello,  Nel,"  he  said,  with  brusk  cheeriness  to  dispel 
his  mood ;  "how's  the  world  with  you  ?" 

The  girl  hardly  stirred  in  her  furs;  her  eyes  were 
fixed  on  the  crowds  in  the  street  of  fakirs. 

Sunday  nights  the  human  tide  eddied  and  choked 
the  thoroughfare,  congesting  about  the  haranguing 
speakers,  the  beaters  of  drums  and  cymbals,  the  stri- 
dent panaceaists  and  proclaimers  of  revolutions.  But 
Nella  Free  was  watching  one  beyond  the  others — the 
woman  in  black,  who  towered  above  the  street  throngs, 
whose  face  she  saw  under  the  flare  and  swing  of  the 
gas  torch;  whose  arm,  lifting  the  somber  robe,  was 
classic  in  its  appeal,  whose  voice  thrilled  over  the  yap- 
ping fakirs,  so  that  now  and  then  the  girl  in  the  motor- 
car caught  a  word  of  its  resurgent  fervor. 

She  laid  a  hand  on  the  young  man's  sleeve  as  he 
leaned  over  the  tonneau.  "Listen!  It's  grand,  just 
like  a  theater — like  an  actress  speaking!" 

"It  is,"  answered  Arnold  indifferently.  "Acting — 
superb  acting!" 

The  girl  looked  at  him  with  curious,  attentive 
rebuke.  "You're  getting  bitter,  Hammy,  ain't  you? 


i66  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

And  you're  getting  funny  little  lines  about  your  eyes. 
You  don't  care  for  anything  or  anybody." 

"Superb  acting,"  he  murmured,  and  smiled  at  her ; 
then  swung  lightly  into  the  seat  beside  her,  snapping 
open  his  silver  cigarette  case. 

The  girl  turned  to  him  with  a  pleased  laugh ;  from 
the  shift  of  her  furs  the  perfume  of  violets  exhaled. 
The  young  man  suddenly  descended,  and,  without 
word,  leaving  her  astonished,  disappeared  in  the  door- 
way of  the  Maplewood. 


CHAPTER   X 

"Love,"  said  the  laundry  route  poet,  dissecting  his 
raviolis  at  Sedaini's  on  pay  night,  "is  the  divinest 
ecstasy  of  the  human  organism,  but  it's  fatal  to  genius. 
Herrick  and  Lovelace  and  some  of  those  second-raters 
framed  up  some  good  stuff  with  love  as  the  motif,  but 
the  big  men  never  monkeyed  with  it." 

Mary  Mellody  looked  pained  and  in  much  doubt; 
it  was  hard  to  dwell  with  the  fat  young  poet's  soul. 
In  her  hand-bag  she  had  at  least  eight  inches  of  ballad 
burdened  with  the  amorous  tragedy  of  one  Tiburico 
Vasquez,  an  early  California  outlaw,  who  eloped  with 
his  friend's  wife,  and  was  thereafter  hanged  through 
the  husband's  machinations,  which  Mr.  Jarbo  had  con- 
fided to  her  for  criticism;  the  stanzas  dripped  with 
tender  passion,  and  the  poet  had  squeezed  her  fingers 
ecstatically  as  he  read  them  to  her  on  the  stairs. 

But  now  Miss  Mellody  turned  to  Sammy  in  con- 
fusion, a  spot  of  color  on  her  pale  cheeks,  a  catch  in 
her  voice :  "You  don't  care  for  nothing,"  she  declared. 
"Sammy — Sammy !" 

"I  don't?"  protested  he.  "Look  at  me,  girl;  you'll 
be  fatal  to  me." 

He  grasped  her  hand  across  the  table,  and  they 
drank  in  each  other's  glances,  Mary  with  her  color 
heightening,  her  eyes  growing  bigger  under  the  poet's 
hypnosis,  until  she  flung  about  from  him  on  the  chair. 

167 


168  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

"O,  you're  awful,  just  awful,  Sammy !" 

The  laundry  route  poet  uprose  and  strode  the  little 
cafe,  Napoleonically ;  he  tried  to  frown,  and  then 
came  back  to  sit  across  from  her. 

"Sweet  Mellody,"  he  began  presently,  with  a  soften- 
ing voice,  "how'll  I  ever  turn  out  the  big  stuff  with 
you?  You  make  me  feel  flimsy.  How'll  I  ever  get 
past  the  forty-second  stanza  of  Pizarro — with  you?" 

"I  don't  know,"  she  faltered.  "I  suppose  I'm  just 
only  in  the  way!" 

The  poet  shook  his  head  lugubriously,  but  without 
speech. 

But  as  they  went  slowly  out  and  paused  under  the 
balcony  of  the  Family  Liquor  Store,  ere  going  to  their 
rooms,  he  saw,  within  her  eyes,  sonnets,  rondeaus, 
cycles  of  such  songs  as  Dante  found  in  the  gaze  of 
Beatrice,  or  Abelard  in  Heloise.  Perhaps,  after  all,  it 
didn't  matter  so  much. 

Miss  Cranberry  found  them  hand  in  hand  coming 
up  the  lodging-house  stairs,  and  discreetly  turned 
within  the  little  kitchen  to  scold  the  parrot.  Nella 
Free  met  them  in  the  hall  with  a  nervous  laugh. 

"My,"  she  said,  "you  kids!    Where's  Hammy?" 

"We  don't  see  so  much  of  him  now,"  answered  the 
poet.  "He's  going  it  pretty  fast  down-town,  isn't  he? 
You  ought  to  know." 

Nella  laughed  again  in  her  usual  good-natured  con- 
straint. She  was  obsessed  by  her  idleness,  her  vacant 
mind,  her  good  clothes ;  her  lover,  for  expedient  rea- 
sons, forbade  her  to  mingle  much  with  the  life  of  the 
down-town,  where  otherwise  she  would  have  been — it 
was  "politics,"  and  she  reasoned  on  it  not  at  all.  But 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  169 

she  chafed  and  fretted,  heart-hungry,  inutile,  for  ever 
going  about  with  her  nervous  little  laughs  and  small 
questionings. 

At  times  she  envied  Bernice  Murasky,  the  apostate 
Jewess,  the  sullen  shop-girl,  who  gnawed  her  fingers 
with  fury  when  she  saw  Nella  with  a  new  hat,  costing 
three  times  as  much  as  Bernice  earned  in  a  month; 
but  she  could  not  have  held  herself  a  week  at  the  level 
on  which  the  shop-girl  fought  wildly  against  the  con- 
ditions that  were  crushing  her  dreams,  her  worship  of 
an  unknown  and  glittering  estheticism,  the  beautiful 
things  and  ways  of  life.  Bernice,  to  herself,  reviled 
the  other  girl,  her  inanities,  her  shallowness ;  here,  she 
might  have  read,  studied,  traveled,  found  a  dozen 
expressions  for  the  piteous  woman's  note  which  the 
girl  of  Solinsky's  was  dying  to  give  forth — and  she 
thought  of  nothing  but  pleasing  her  lover,  dressing 
prettily,  idling  about  her  flat.  Debarred  from  friends, 
she  chattered  town  gossip  with  her  maid  or  messenger 
boys  or  the  janitor. 

She  came  to  Sedaini's  to  eat  the  cheap  table  d'  hole 
because  "the  boys  made  her  laugh ;"  and  up  on  Wash- 
ington Street  she  wouldn't  interfere  with  Harry's 
political  affairs ;  she  could  really  have  a  friend.  When 
she  visited  Cranberry's  she  invariably  brought  some- 
thing for  the  Polacchi  children — shoes  for  "Terry," 
as  Arnold  had  nicknamed  the  small  girl,  a  sweater  for 
Angelo,  or  now,  sweets  for  Bill,  the  waif.  With  these 
small  gifts  Nella  supplicated  tolerance  in  Miss  Gran- 
berry's  sharp  eyes ;  but  here  she  was  mistaken,  for  the 
old  woman  did  not  draw  back  from  Nella's  ways  of 
life.  She  guessed  much,  but,  in  her  cap  and  black  silk 


170  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

gown,  going  to  Trinity  of  Sundays,  Miss  Cranberry 
found  no  judgment. 

The  hard  town  had  taught  her;  one  does  not  live 
forty  years  in  San  Francisco  lodging-houses  for  noth- 
ing; one  finds  the  infinite  and  necessary  compromises 
with  life.  The  divorce  court  or  the  morgue  may  make 
the  summing-up  of  one's  neighbors,  but  one  can  leave 
the  signing  of  the  count  to  God — so  the  little,  old 
woman  had  it,  and,  kneeling  to  try  the  new  shoes  on 
the  fisherman's  orphan,  she  would  mutter:  "There, 
there,  dearie — the  pretty  things — the  pretty  things  ! 
And  who  the  giver  is  we'll  not  ask — she's  only  what 
men  made  her — there,  there — dearie,  run  and  play." 

So  in  and  out  of  Cranberry's  lodgings  she  fluttered 
with  her  silks  and  perfumes,  her  furtive  gifts,  her 
laughter  and  unrest,  her  Gipsy  carelessness.  It  was 
the  one  spot  in  all  the  world  where  she  was  free, 
wholly  free;  she  could  gossip  with  Granny  in  the 
kitchen,  listening  indifferently  to  long  tales  of  the  days 
of  Ralston;  she  could  loll  in  Arnold's  morris  chair, 
smoking  his  cigarettes,  or  idle  in  Mary  Mellody's 
room,  conferring  on  fashions,  or  sit  with  the  other 
girl  on  the  edge  of  Sammy's  bed,  listening  with  doubt- 
ful appreciation  to  his  abominable  verses — here,  in  all 
the  world  the  world  held  no  winking  wisdom  about 
her ;  she  was  free,  and  her  spark  of  personality  found 
itself,  her  confused  consciousness  cleared.  With  them 
she  had  no  need  of  pretense,  for  they  faced  each  day 
with  elemental,  sophisticated  simplicity.  They  had  no 
need  of  pretense,  either,  and  therefore  had  a  charity 
impossible  to  the  better  ordered  world.  For  good  or 
evil  they  were  cut  off  from  its  sincere  largeness  of 


THE   DAY   OF    SOULS  171 

good,  its  clean  friendlinesses,  its  buoyant  virtues — 
they  had  to  make  their  own  and  live  them. 

Of  late  Nella  had  not  been  at  Sedaini's.  Wally 
Walters,  the  silent  pianist  and  rag  composer,  and 
Hammy  Arnold,  who  could  always  make  her  laugh 
with  his  songs  and  contortions  when  he  chose  to 
mimic  some  histrionic  idol  of  the  day,  were  not  now 
patrons  of  the  four-bit  table  d'  hote. 

Arnold,  in  fact,  had  not  slept  at  his  lodgings  for  a 
fortnight.  He  had  been  let  in  on  a  great  coup  at  the 
Emeryville  races,  where  a  secret  clique  put  forward  an 
unknown  horse  in  a  rich  handicap,  getting  a  light  im- 
post on  their  mount  against  which  the  unsuspecting 
public  bet  heavily  on  a  popular  favorite.  But  the  "long 
shot"  galloped  home  against  a  field  that  had  no  chance 
with  him,  and  the  inside  people  made  an  enormous 
profit.  Arnold  won  four  thousand  dollars  on  the  affair 
and  lost  three  of  it  within  the  week,  recklessly  backing 
other  horses.  But  it  made  him  a  great  man  among  the 
cigar  store  habitues,  the  juvenile  hangers-on  of  the 
form  sheets.  When  J.  Ham  Arnold  strolled  into  the 
smoking  shop  where  Mannie  Murasky  supervised  the 
gambling-machines,  and  cast  an  eye  over  the  entries 
posted,  envious  youths  craned  to  see  what  horse  and 
odds  he  was  considering. 

He  came  back  from  the  track  a  few  days  later  broke. 
The  book-makers  had  his  other  thousand  besides  three 
hundred  borrowed  from  Ferreri.  He  now  secured  fifty 
dollars  from  Fergy  of  the  Maplewood  on  the  plea  that 
his  salary  from  the  People  for  eminent  services  ren- 
dered at  the  capitol  was  due.  About  the  cafes  his 
meteoric  rise  and  fall  at  the  track  was  the  subject  of 


I72  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

merriment.  He  met  it  with  a  serene  smile,  but  he  was 
weak  and  overlaid  with  drink,  sleeplessness  and  throb- 
bing humors.  But  he  had  forgotten,  he  told  himself ;  he 
looked  back  on  the  brief,  troubled  rise  of  his  better 
self,  the  pain  of  it  all,  as  now  a  grotesque  emotion; 
when  the  memory  grew  too  acute  he  drank  and 
plunged  deeper  in  the  life  of  the  town.  He  had  paid, 
out  of  his  winnings,  a  month's  rental  on  Miss  Gran- 
berry's  house,  had  sent  two  weeks'  groceries  to  the 
place,  a  piece  of  gray  dress  goods  for  the  old  lady  and 
a  department  store  jumble  of  stuff  to  her  proteges,  but 
he  had  not  been  near  his  rooms.  They  strangely 
haunted  him,  the  silence,  the  shadows,  the  whip  of  the 
wind  on  the  balcony,  the  disarray  of  papers  and  books 
and  music  scattered  over  the  floor  and  furniture.  On 
his  one  visit  there  he  had  found  a  small  soiled  glove, 
stained,  perfumed  with  the  crushed  stems  of  flowers, 
among  the  stuff  on  his  dresser  and  staring  at  it,  he 
closed  the  door  and  left. 

But  one  reminder  he  had  of  Sylvia  and  her  story. 
About  the  town,  day  and  night,  in  the  fight  clubs  and 
gambling  places,  the  cafes,  and  across  the  bay  at  the 
races  the  lavender  pup  followed  him.  It  was  at  his 
heels  when  it  might  be,  and,  abject,  cringing,  grotesque 
in  its  color  and  shambling  uselessness,  it  waited  for 
him,  always  waited  in  doorways  and  on  curb.  At  first 
he  resented  this  reminder  of  the  country-up-in-back, 
and  of  the  last  snapping  of  the  bond  holding  him  to 
his  better  self,  and  then  he  came  through  brooding 
toleration  to  a  sense  of  relation  with  the  brute.  He 
made  a  place  for  it  at  the  hotel,  and  solemn,  sad-eyed, 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  173 

prematurely  old,  it  seemed,  the  pup  sat  about  the 
master. 

"Old  man,"  Arnold  muttered,  "what  the  devil  do 
you  want?  I  can't  make  out.  Hungry,  pup?  Cold? 
No?  Well,  what  are  you  watching  me  for?"  And  at 
other  times  he  held  one-sided  conversations  with  the 
inquiring  one:  "We're  broke  jto-day,  pup,  ain't  we? 
They  certainly  cleaned  us  out  in  the  fifth.  Never  mind ; 
we'll  wear  diamonds  when  this  bunch  of  bookies  is 
striking  us  for  hand-outs.  Stick  to  me,  old  man.  I'll 
fill  that  purple  hide  of  yours  with  canvasback  when  we 
pull  off  the  big  win."  And  yet  again  he  addressed 
the  dog  from  his  hidden  trouble.  "She  liked  you, 
didn't  she? — the  grand  little  girl!  Well,  we  did  our 
best  to  put  her  square,  but  it  wasn't  much,  was  it,  pup  ? 
Here,  you  little  cuss,  look  at  me !  Am  I  as  bad  as  she's 
got  a  right  to  think  ?" 

But  he  tore  the  memory  from  him ;  if  there  was  in 
him  the  faint  jewel  of  a  good  deed,  he  buried  it  deeper 
with  outlawry.  He  turned  from  one  bad  affair  to  an- 
other. Stillman  had  told  him  that  when  the  governor 
came  back  from  New  York  he  would  be  seen  about  the 
pardon.  Ham  must  be  patient — something  would  turn 
up  soon. 

The  "something"  did  in  the  middle  of  trie  midwinter 
legislative  session.  Arnold  was  summoned  from  a 
Bush  Street  poker  club  one  night  by  telephone  to  meet 
Stillman  at  the  Maplewood.  He  was  ushered  to  the 
gold  room  and  they  had  a  quart  of  champagne  before 
the  commissioner  of  police,  the  raconteur,  and  maker 
of  quips,  the  agent  for  the  boss  and  higher-ups,  quelled 
his  wit  to  the  conferential  reason  of  the  meeting.  Ar- 


174  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

nold  knew  something  was  due ;  he  idled  back,  watching 
Stillman's  reflection  in  the  polished  panels  of  white 
birch  and  gold  behind  the  table,  waiting  for  the 
ripening. 

At  length,  with  fraternal  assurance,  Stillman,  too, 
leaned  back  and  sighed. 

"I  see  we've  got  to  handle  Weldy,"  he  said.  "I 
thought  he  was  going  to  hold  out  on  us." 

"How's  that?"  queried  Arnold.  He  did  not  bother 
himself  about  politics  at  Sacramento,  or  even  read  the 
papers  these  days.  "I  thought  he  was  making  good 
up  there?" 

"Ham,  you  stung  yourself  on  that  fellow.  You  re- 
member we  gave  him  the^  nomination  mostly  on  your 
word  ?  Now,  look  what  he's  at !  The  colonel  tells  me 
Weldy  holds  out  of  every  caucus  the  delegation  has 
called  on  this  Lacy  investigation.  Of  course  it's  the  old 
game,  but  I  thought  Weldy  would  be  grateful  enough 
to  you  not  to  stick  out  for  a  price." 

The  younger  man  tipped  forward  so  that  the  front 
legs  of  his  chair  thumped  the  floor.  "O,  look  here, 
Harry,  Fred  isn't  looking  for  money!"  he  retorted 
testily. 

"He  isn't?  He  certainly  isn't  bucking  us  for  glory, 
is  he?" 

"In  this  investigation  business?  I  haven't  heard 
much  lately." 

"Well,  you  knew  we  got  him  on  the  special  commit- 
tee to  report  on  Lacy's  resolution  to  look  into  what 
beat  these  civic  purity  bills,  didn't  you  ?  Of  course  the 
two  farmers  on  it  are  dead!  after  the  investigation,  and 
the  two  city  members,  of  course,  are  against  it.  Tfiat 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  175 

puts  it  up  to  Weldy.  Now,  I  got  him  on  that  commit- 
tee to  kill  the  affirmative  report.  I  didn't  even  inquire 
how  he  stood — I  supposed  your  man  would  always 
stand  right.  But  he  doesn't  stand  right,  and  what  else 
can  he  want  except  a  hold-up  ?  He's  a  wise  guy,  that's 
what  he  is.  He's  got  a  cinch  on  us." 

"I  guess  not— it  doesn't  look  like  Fred." 

"It's  a  hold-up  or  else  he's  going  to  vote  for  the  in- 
vestigation of  where  the  money  went  that  beat  the  Lacy 
bills,"  retorted  Stillman  coolly,  "and  that  last  would 
raise  hell  up  and  down  the  state,  wouldn't  it  ?" 

Arnold  looked  at  the  intricate  mosaic  of  the  stained 
glass  window  that  screened  the  gold  room  from  the 
street ;  he  was  trying  to  study  the  matter  out ;  he  had 
rather  forgotten  Fred  Weldy  the  past  month,  along 
with  everything  else.  "Fred's  funny,"  he  asserted,  at 
length,  "and  the  unions  have  been  jumping  on  him 
about  this  bribery  inquiry." 

"Well,  who's  he  taking  orders  from?"  demanded 
Stillman.  "What  did  these  rat  unions  have  to  do  with 
it  except  to  vote  for  him  ?" 

The  other  laughed. 

The  business  agent  for  the  labor  municipal  adminis- 
tration went  on  with  the  brisk  hurriedness  he  always 
used  when  the  time  for  quips  was  past.  "He's  a  bad 
actor.  He's  handed  us  the  double-cross.  Personally, 
Fred's  all  right,  but  he's  on  the  wrong  lead  here.  But 
we  can  break  him." 

"Break  him  ?  You  couldn't  get  Fred  back  into  poli- 
tics with  a  club,  once  he  can  get  out  of  it !" 

The  business  agent  looked  shrewdly  worried. 

"That's  bad.   You  don't  imagine  he's  coming  any 


i;6  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

baby  play  ? — that  he  will  favor  the  investigation  ?  My 
God— no!" 

"It's  an  even  bet,"  murmured  Arnold  complacently. 
He  was  enjoying  Stillman's  perplexity — it  was  rarely 
one  saw  him  at  a  loss. 

"Well,  we've  got  to  get  him.  There's  big  men  be- 
hind the  track,  Ham — the  best  people  in  the  town  here, 
socially,  and  all — and  there's  nobody  wants  any  stink 
stirred  about  the  killing  of  the  Lacy  bills.  Now,  you 
know  that  I'm  responsible,  Hammy.  I  took  it  from 
you  that  Fred  was  straight.  Some  of  these  people  are 
asking  me  what  sort  of  a  dub  we  sent  up  there  from 
your  district.  I  come  to  you,  Ham.  This  fellow's 
yours,  and  you'll  have  to  handle  him." 

"Harry,  I  don't  want  to  mix.  I  don't  owe  the  track 
anything.  I've  been  trying  to  support  a  brace  of 
bookies  out  there  for  two  weeks  myself,  and  I  think 
that  lets  me  off." 

"I've  heard  you  went  wild.  Ain't  you  got  more 
sense  than  to  buck  that  crowd?  Ham,  this  racing  is 
fixed  for  the  rubes  and  the  cheap- John  clerks  and  all 
these  little  screws  and  sawed-offs  that  think  they  can 
beat  another  man  at  his  game.  If  you  want  to  go  on 
the  turf,  go  right.  Go  inside  and  work  out,"  the  com- 
missioner continued  thoughtfully;  "don't  be  handing 
money  up  to  the  professionals  with  the  rest  of  the 
lambs — get  inside  and  take  it  yourself." 

"I  just  take  a  flyer  now  and  then  for  the  sport." 

"Sport — nothing,  it's  business.  Hammy,  between 
you  and  me  there's  nothing  so  weak  and  foolish  as  the 
sport — he's  just  the  sucker  for  the  man  with  the  long 
business  head  to  play." 


"Will  you  need  five  hundred  ?    What  kind  of  a  stiff  is  he  ?"    Page  177. 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  '177 

The  younger  man  watched  the  brusk  business  agent 
tilting  the  white-robed  bottle  across  the  table ;  he  heard 
it  crash  back  in  the  ice,  and  said  not  a  word.  Stillman, 
the  jollier,  the  man-about-town,  the  sponsor  for  the 
sporting  men,  defender  of  the  open  lid,  did  not  drink, 
but  he  lit  a  fresh  cigar. 

"Business/*  he  continued,  "and  that's  why  the  races 
are  run,  the  booze  is  sold  and  the  houses  flourish — 
some  business  man  wants  the  money,  and  we  develop 
the  sport  to  feed  into  the  mill.  Well,  I  don't  often  open 
up  this  way,  but  I  know  you  understand.  Business — 
and  that's  why  we've  got  to  get  Weldy.  Ever  talk  with 
him?  How  much  will  he  want?" 

"Harry,  you  can't  touch  him." 

"O,  yes  we  can,"  the  debonair  man-about-town  airily 
waved  his  cigar  toward  the  other.  "He's  waiting  for 
the  offer.  I  know  these  stiffs  in_  politics — he's  holding 
out  to  stick  us  hard." 

"Well,  go  to  him,  then." 

"Yes.  But  the  colonel  and  the  boys  at  Sacramento 
are  afraid  of  Weldy.  He's  pretty  raw,  and  they  don't 
know  how  to  approach  him.  So  they  passed  it  back  to 
me ;  and  he's  yours,  Ham — he's  yours." 

"I  pass  him  up." 

The  police  commissioner  had  drawn  a  roll  of  new 
bills  from  his  pocket.  He  counted  them  briskly.  "Will 
you  need  five  hundred?  What  kind  of  a  stiff  is  he? 
He's  got  a  house  in  Berkeley  and  a  mortgage  due,  I 
hear." 

Arnold  sat  upright  from  his  indifferent  lounging. 
"Harry,"  he  muttered,  "cut  this  out — he's  my  friend." 

"That  makes  it  better.     Five  hundred  will  get  him. 


178  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

It's  more  than  was  put  up  to  kill  the  anti-track  bills  to 
begin  with."  Harry  Stillman  laughed.  The  people's 
representatives  were  always  more  or  less  a  joke. 

"Harry,"  said  the  other,  "you're  shoving  a  lot  of 
work  on  me  this  winter.  I  put  through  that  grand 
jury  trick,  and  I  stood  for  the  registration,  and — " 

"Hammy,  you're  the  safest  man  we've  got — you  have 
a  serious  way  of  being  strong  with  people." 

"Yes,  and  you  think  you've  got  me  now.  I  suppose 
you'd  railroad  me  to  San  Quentin  through  some  of  the 
push  judges  if  I  jumped  the  program,  wouldn't  you?" 

The  politician  laughed  debonairly.  He  never  allowed 
the  steel  to  show  through  the  velvet. 

"I've  gone  pretty  deep,"  muttered  the  younger  man. 
"It's  rotten !" 

"My  boy,"  said  the  other,  and  his  face  had  a  patient 
seriousness,  "no  man  can  deal  with  the  American 
people  without  becoming  rotten.  Some  day  I'm  going 
to  write  a  treatise  on  the  way  the  people  corrupt  their 
politicians — the  baneful  effect  of  the  business  man  on 
the  boss ;  the  cunning  contrivances  of  the  governed  to 
prostitute  the  government." 

Stillman  smiled  across  the  table,  shoving  the  money 
to  Arnold's  hand ;  about  him,  after  all,  was  the  lovable 
wit,  the  assuring  camaraderie,  on  which,  in  democ- 
racies, power  is  built;  which  stills  alarms  and  scruples 
alike  in  minds  less  alert. 

"Now,  go  after  your  man,"  he  continued.  "If  he 
won't  take  the  money,  let's  donate  it  to  the  Children's 
Hospital — I've  already  given  them  one  thousand." 

"Weldy  won't  touch  it,"  mused  Arnold,  distantly  ab- 
sorbed. 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  179 

"Flash  it  on  him.  If  he  don't — all  right.  It'll  let  you 
out,  Ham — you'll  have  done  your  best.  I'll  bet  you  a 
hundred  dollars  he  takes  it." 

"I'll  take  you."  Arnold  laughed  mirthlessly.  "Harry, 
you're  a  son-of-a-gun !  You  only  look  at  life  one  way 
— don't  you  ?"  He  picked  up  the  roll  of  bills,  smoothed 
their  crinkly  length  and  tucked  them  in  his  pocket.  "I 
think  I'll  go  on  another  drunk — I  feel  it  coming." 

"Cut  that  out,"  retorted  Stillman  soberly.  "That's 
another  thing  you  must  leave  to  the  rubes  and  seven- 
dollar  clerks.  If  you  have  anything  to  do  with  liquor, 
sell  it  to  the  other  fellow.  Ham,  I've  got  one  rule  of 
life  that  I  never  saw  defeated — Always  work  from  the 
inside  out!" 

The  police  commissioner  accompanied  the  younger 
man  to  the  bar-room  and  bade  him  a  fraternizing  fare- 
well. Arnold  strolled  slowly  up  Market  Street.  The 
down-town  tide  to  the  theaters  and  cafes  was  just 
setting  in  at  half-past  seven.  He  went  on  until  he 
found  himself  in  Union  Square,  and  sat  restlessly  down 
on  one  of  the  benches,  staring  into  the  dim  west  above 
the  shrubbery  which  was  lighted  by  the  high  arcs. 
Across  the  shining  way  came  the  clamor  of  the  cable- 
cars,  a  murmur  of  street  voices  and  noises  indistinct, 
confused,  but  lending  to  the  evening  peace  of  the 
Square  where,  in  the  palms  and  acacias,  the  sparrows 
were  asleep. 

Arnold  heard  the  twitter  of  a  late  bird  in  the  bushes 
at  his  back.  He  took  out  the  money  and  idly  twisted 
it  about  his  fingers. 

"My  friend !"  he  murmured ;  "they  want  me  to  buy 
my  friend !" 


i8o  THE  DAY   OF   SOULS 

A  white  shaft  erected  by  the  citizens  of  San  Fran- 
cisco to  the  memory  of  the  soldiers  and  sailors  who 
fought  at  the  battle  of  Manila  rises  from  the  sward  of 
Union  Square.  Upon  the  capital  stands  a  winged  Vic- 
tory stretching  a  wreath  and  a  trident  to  the  sky. 

About  a  clump  of  acacias  near  the  young  man  came 
a  bent  figure,  slowly  feeling  for  the  path  with  a  cane. 
Tap-a-tap  sounded  the  walking  stick  and  then  it 
stopped.  The  Captain  straightened  himself,  his  hand 
to  his  imperial,  his  face  lighted  with  wistful  expectancy, 
his  half-blinded  eyes  straining  to  see  the  monument 
against  the  dying  light  of  the  west. 

The  younger  man's  gaze  followed.  The  veteran's 
right  hand  rose  slowly  to  the  brim  of  his  slouch  hat. 
Then  his  eyes  went  to  the  ground,  the  cane  tapped  on 
along  the  path.  But  at  the  pavement  he  looked  back, 
and  again  Arnold  saw  his  slow  salute ;  his  eyes  on  the 
marble  shaft,  on  the  bronze  Victory  rising  immutable, 
serene,  triumphant,  above  the  brawling  town. 


CHAPTER  XI 

Arnold  was  taking  his  usual  saunter  along  Market 
Street  at  noon,  having  risen  earlier  than  was  his  cus- 
tom. On  the  "sunny  side  the  Slot"  he  met  Sammy 
Jarbo,  who  rehearsed  some  gossip  from  over  the  hill. 
But  Arnold  had  only  a  distant  interest  in  Washington 
Street,  it  appeared,  though  he  asked  of  everybody,  and 
particularly  if  the  Captain  had  heard  any  news  from 
the  army  department  headquarters.  Being  assured  that 
no  word  had  reached  the  father,  he  relapsed  into  si- 
lence, walking  along  with  his  hand  on  Sammy's 
shoulder,  through  the  California  morning. 

Sammy  and  he  had  been  as  brothers  by  reason  of  the 
old  days  when  they  were  "broke"  together;  and  be- 
sides, it  is  something  to  have  a  friend  to  walk  with 
through  such  weather.  They  wandered  as  far  as  the 
city  hall  plaza,  and  then  Sammy  had  to  depart  for  his 
afternoon  wagon  deliveries.  He  gave  his  friend  a  last 
troubled  look;  Arnold  was  as  always,  well-dressed, 
immaculately  groomed  and  polished,  but  his  face  held 
a  pallor  that  had  crept  above  its  swarthiness,  his  mobile 
mouth  twitched  more  than  it  was  wont  in  other  days. 

"Hammy,"  muttered  his  friend,  "why  don't  you  get 
through  with  it  ?  Don't  let  a  girl  break  you  up  like  this 
— it's  pretty  tough  to  be  turned  down  cold,  but  come 
out  of  it." 

181 


182  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

Arnold  smiled  kindly  on  him.  Between  these  two 
there  had  been  that  fellowship  which  is  the  chief  virtue 
of  men,  and  of  which  women  know  nothing ;  and  when 
he  chose  to  close  his  heart,  Sammy  could  find  the  way, 
if  it  was  to  be  found.  But  he  only  smiled  benignantly 
now  and  gripped  Sammy's  shoulder  tighter.  "Little 
man,  I  know  you  mean  it !"  was  his  only  word. 

"Women,"  continued  Mr.  Jarbo;  "they've  been 
breaking  up  things  for  five  thousand  years,  ain't  they  ?" 
He  sighed.  "  'Uncertain,  coy  and  hard  to  please' — 
didn't  those  knights  of  old  have  it  handed  to  them 
same  as  we?" 

Arnold's  smile  deepened.  "I've  wanted  to  tell  you 
something.  Sammy,  that  lame  girl  loves  you." 

"Eh?"  stuttered  the  poet,  "what  are  you  at?" 

"Mary  Mellodys,  She's  fine  and  she's  up  against  a 
hard  game.  Life's  a  tough  old  proposition  to  a  girl 
like  her,  lame,  cut  off — not  a  soul  in  the  world  who 
cares.  And  she  loves  you.  I  tell  you,  that's  all  that's 
worth  while — to  have  some  woman  believe  you're  bet- 
ter than  you  are." 

"And  it  seems  that  to  you  they're  just  an  adven- 
ture—" 

"Don't  talk  about  me.  With  me  the  adventure's 
done.  Women  have  been  fair  weather  friends  with  me, 
but  when  the  dark  days  came — they  always  quit  me 
then.  All  except — "  he  broke  off  with  his  old  imper- 
sonal humor.  "I've  analyzed  the  matter,  Sammy.  I've 
made  a  study  of  failure,  I've  been  after  the  philosophy 
of  it;  IVe  worked  out  its  principles,  and  after  while, 
when  the  demonstration  is  done,  if  any  man  wants  to 
go  to  the  devil  I  can  give  him  an  exact  formula." 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  183 

"You're  an  awful  fool,"  sighed  Sammy,  "and  I  give 
you  up." 

"That's  best."  The  other  gripped  the  poet's  arm. 
"But  you — you  take  your  little  old  case  of  heart  fail- 
ure and  swing  in  hard.  You  marry  Mary  and  live,  boy. 
That's  one  thing  I  want  before — "  he  broke  again  and 
stared  over  his  friend's  head.  "Well,  don't  bother  about 
me — things  don't  hurt  me.  The  world  can  uppercut 
me  pretty  hard,  and  I'll  smile." 

The  poet's  eyes  were  troubled.  "I  wish  you'd  break 
with  all  this.  O,  Hammy,  if  we  could  all  be  like  we 
were  once — just  young  and  laughing  together  over 
some  fool  thing!  Seems  like  up  on  the  hill  they're  all 
waiting  for  you — Granny  and  the  kiddies  and  that  old 
soldier — seems  as  if  we  all  believed  in  you.  Up  there 
you're  no  crook,  like  the  papers  call  you." 

He  left  his  friend  staring  at  a  fleck  of  blue  above  the 
town  where  the  trades  fog  broke.  In  the  afternoon  the 
wine-like  sunshine  came  and  Arnold  idled  along  streets 
bulging  with  traffic  and  in  cafes  agog  with  pleasure. 
And  at  three  o'clock  he  was  in  Abrams'  pool-room, 
nervously  fingering  the  bribe  money  in  his  vest  pocket. 
He  had  had  a  drink  or  two,  and  the  gamblers'  fever 
was  on  him,  a  blind  resurgence.  He  remembered  that 
it  was  the  day  of  the  Narcissus  Stakes,  and  he  had 
been  given  a  "hunch"  on  Bianca — not  as  straight  as 
the  plot  that  landed  Corsair  with  the  big  money  but — 
well  it  was  worth  a  twenty,  surely  ? 

The  pool-room  was  a  noisome  place  with  the  stink 
of  unwashed  men,  bare  of  floor,  dim-lit  from  grimy 
windows.  Benches  were  along  two  sides  of  the  base- 
ment on  which  the  wrecks  of  the  racing  "dope"  loafed, 


184  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

watching  the  others  who  had  not  yet  come  to  the 
street,  as  they  studied  the  blackboards  on  which  the 
horses  were  posted.  A  partition  ran  along  one  end  of 
the  room,  enclosing  the  telephones  and  paraphernalia 
of  the  pool-room  men,  and  before  this  space  was  a 
high  counter — so  high  that  a  tall  man  could  not  see 
over  the  top — and  the  dope  gamblers,  after  they  had 
made  their  choice,  were  compelled  to  reach  their  money 
over  their  heads  to  the  clerks,  who  then  bawled  the 
bet  to  the  ticket  writers,  and  passed  the  pasteboards 
back  to  the  customers.  The  room  was  filling  now,  with 
a  slow  interjection  of  new  life  among  the  dreary  hab- 
itues, for  it  was  nearly  the  time  of  the  first  race  at 
Emeryville  track.  The  reek  of  tobacco  and  whisky  was 
in  the  air. 

As  the  minute  of  the  start  approached,  the  shuffling 
crowd  thickened  below  the  high,  board  counter  and  the 
husky-throated,  stunted  clerks  bawled  louder,  while 
the  money  dribbled  up  to  their  hands.  The  patrons 
had  one  common  facial  characteristic — a  weak  show  of 
wisdom;  they  would  nod  their  heads  and  mutter  and 
shove,  cunningly  penciling  their  racing  forms  and 
newspapers.  The  protruding  lips,  watery  eyes,  weak 
chins  above  grimy,  collarless  shirts,  the  sordid  front 
of  the  beaten  people  all  were  there ;  and  among  these 
off-scourings  were  small  clerks,  dray-men,  mechanics 
at  their  nooning,  high-school  boys,  laborers,  cigarette- 
sucking  weaklings — every  cheap  class  of  the  town 
poured  its  pitiful  earnings  into  the  coffers  of  the  rich 
men  behind  the  races,  into  the  pockets  of  the  gamblers 
who  ruled  the  city,  who  used  the  newspapers  to  adver- 
tise their  business  and  glorify  their  deeds  in  the 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  185 

sporting  columns,  the  courts  to  protect  it,  and  the  gov- 
ernment to  give  it  dignity. 

Arnold  threaded  the  dull  crowd  and  placed  twenty 
dollars  on  Bianca;  he  was  coming  out,  ascending  the 
stairs,  glad  to  be  rid  of  the  foulness,  when  some  one 
cried  out  by  his  side.  Eddie  Ledyard  of  the  shoe  house 
was  pointing  at  the  green  ticket  in  his  hand.  The  boy 
had  at  first  started,  ashamed  to  be  seen  in  the  place, 
but  here  was  Arnold,  a  man  accustomed  about  town 
to  better  company  than  himself. 

"What's  your  play,  Ham?"  cried  Eddie.  "They're 
—they're  off  in  the  first !" 

"Nothing,"  said  the  other  carelessly.  "Just  a  piker's 
bit  with  me — Bianca." 

Eddie  looked  shrewdly  at  him.  What  was  up,  Ham 
playing  the  pools?  And  was  it  Bianca?  The  racing 
dope  makes  the  best  of  friends  suspicious ;  maybe  there 
was  another  big  coup  on  like  that  of  Corsair?  The 
youthful  clerk  greedily  peered  at  Arnold's  ticket.  "Bi- 
anca," repeated  his  friend;  "Bianca,  Eddie — seven  to 
one." 

"Are  you  sure?"  whispered  the  shoe  clerk.  "Ham, 
I'm  done  for  this  week — I  flew  wide  on  Presidente, 
and  it  hurt."  His  voice  broke.  "It's  something  fierce, 
ain't  it?" 

Arnold  eyed  Ledyard  narrowly.  The  boyish  fellow 
jerked  uneasily,  as  though  his  collar  was  too  tight;  he 
bit  his  fingers,  staring  at  the  entries  and  the  odds 
posted  back  of  the  sing-songing  clerks.  But  Ledyard's 
queerness  was  nothing  unusual ;  Arnold  had  seen  the 
racing  madness  every  day  on  the  street  and  at  the 
track — only  Eddie  was  his  old  higteschool  pal. 


186  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

"Bianca,"  muttered  Ledyard.  "You  got  it  straight, 
Ham?  Can't  she  lose?" 

"Couldn't  lose  if  she  was  tied  in  the  stable,"  retorted 
the  other.  "But,  Eddie,  you  cut  this  out." 

"I  know — I  know!  But  Bianca — "  his  gaze  was 
dreamy  and  afar,  and  now  one  could  see  the  tired  lines 
about  the  eyes.  "I  got  to  get  back  somehow,  Ham.  I 
was  going  to  plunge  on  that  Chatom  entry — Edith  M, 
Watt  Chatom's  filly — but  now  I  remember  a  month 
ag°>  you  figured  on  Bianca  for  the  Narcissus." 

"Yes,"  Ham's  voice  was  gentler  now.  "But,  Eddie, 
it's  no  place  for  a  straight  lad  like  you  in  this  thieves' 
game.  You're  going  high,  they  tell  me." 

The  lad  was  still  dreaming.  "I'm  all  right.  You're 
a  good  friend  of  mine,  Ham — you  wouldn't  put  me 
wrong.  We've  always  thought  a  lot  of  you  ever  since 
the  old  Taylor  Street  days.  Stella's  home  now,  and 
we've  got  a  chafing-dish  and  some  new  opera  stuff. 
Say,  Ham,"  Eddie's  eyes  brightened  with  his  old 
blithesomeness,  an  idea  growing  bigger  in  him,  "come 
up  to-night.  Let's  cut  out  the  route  and  make  it  a 
party — the  chafing-dish  and  the  whole  bunch  around 
you  at  the  piano !  Stella'd  ask  some  nice  girls." 

The  two  young  men  looked  curiously  at  each  other ; 
Arnold  spoke  first,  and  with  a  grave  regret.  "Eddie, 
I've  drifted  pretty  far — I  hayen't  seen  the  inside  of  any 
man's  home  for  seven  years/  I'd  better  not  mix  with 
your  sister's  sort  of  girls.  There's  an  arc-light  sizzling 
in  my  brain,  and  that  wouldn't  be  right  up  at  your 
mother's." 

The  clerk  laughed  again  less  lightly.  He  hadn't  been 
about  the  flat  with  Stella  a  great  many  evenings  him- 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  187 

self  this  winter.  But  it  was  "home" — where  the  soft 
lights  burn  that  keep  clean  the  souls  of  men. 

"I  know,"  he  murmured.  "The  game  gets  you  hard, 
doesn't  it  ?  San  Francisco !  Sometimes  I  wonder  where 
all  the  men  and  women  end — the  good-hearted  lads 
we've  met,  and  the  girls,  after  all,  so  kind  and  merry. 
There's  Nel — why  can't  a  man  do  something  for  her? 
If  there  were  some  way  of  untangling  it  all  and  be- 
ginning again." 

"Yes,"  answered  the  other ;  "if  there  were !" 

"Some  day  you  help  her,"  said  Eddie.  "You  know 
hew  to  be  friends  to  every  one,  Hammy.  When  the 
trouble  days  come  for  Nel,  you  help  her — she  won't 
let  me  be  her  friend." 

Arnold  smiled.    The  girl  had  kept  her  promise  then  ! 

The  boyish  fellow  did  not  know.  He  was  musing; 
sometimes  he  had  debated  whether  he  should  ask 
Hammy  Arnold  of  "down-town,"  of  his  other  life  and 
circle  of  friends,  to  meet  Stella  and  his  mother. 

Eddie  was  troubled  by  it  now ;  it  seemed  as  they 
stood  in  the  sunlight,  that  the  way  back  to  the  better 
world  was  as  fair  and  open  to  his  friend  as  to  him- 
self. Stella,  home,  his  mother,  the  laughing  faces  and 
the  homekeeping  hearts — an  amplitude  of  all  he  knew 
was  clean  and  fine,  honoring  good  and  keeping  faith  in 
men  as  they  struggled,  was  about  them.  Yes,  one  could 
go  back  the  way  to  the  soft  home  glows  that  keep 
clean  the  souls  of  men. 

"If  you'd  come !"  Eddie  muttered.  "You  see,  mother 
never  quite  believes  all  that's  said  about  you,  Hammy 
— she  can't.  She  always  remembers  how  you  sang 
Abide  With  Me,  at  Jimmy  King's  funeral.  It  was  eight 


188  THE   DAY   OF    SOULS 

years  ago  and  she  never  can  forget  we  were  all  boys 
together." 

The  other  smiled :  "Tell  her  I  thank  her,  won't  you, 
Eddie?  But  I — can't."  He  waved  a  cheery  farewell. 
When  he  had  gone  the  clerk  turned  on  the  pool-room 
steps,  staring  at  the  sanded  floor  below,  the  sunlit  street 
above.  "Chatom's  filly — or  Bianca?  My  God,  if  I 
could  get  it  straight !"  he  added  dully.  "If  only  I  knew ! 
But  Ham  said  Bianca  in  the  fourth." 

Arnold  idled  in  Billy  Rice's  hang-out  for  small  the- 
atrical people — cheap  vaudevillists,  stage-hands,  press 
agents  and  advance  men  out  of  a  job — listening  to  the 
chaff,  irresolute  as  to  how  he  should  spend  the  after- 
noon. Then,  in  front  of  the  Orpheum,  he  met  a  man 
who  was  reputed  to  have  depleted  the  racing  books  of 
eighty  thousand  dollars  during  the  meet — the  organizer 
of  the  Corsair  clique  and  close  up  at  the  track  and  in 
the  paddock  gossip. 

"Hello,  Slive,"  said  Arnold.  "Why  aren't  you  across 
the  bay?" 

"I'm  taking  care  of  the  end  here — we're  crowding 
on  all  we  can  before  the  price  drops." 

"The  Narcissus?  Behind  Bianca,  eh?" 

The  immaculate  gambler  started.  "Bianca?'*  He 
bent  to  the  other.  "Aren't  you  wise  to  this  ?  Chatom's 
youngster — they  can't  beat  her!"  He  drew  cunningly 
closer  at  Arnold's  unmoved  face.  "Look  at  the  betting 
— from  fifteen-to-one  it's  come  to  sixes,  and  before  the 
flag  drops  it'll  be  three.  Bianca — nothing!  The  race 
is  in  Chatom's  pocket.  I  thought  you  were  wise." 

Arnold  fingered  the  rest  of  the  bribe  money  in  his 


THE   DAY    OF    SOULS  189 

pocket.  He  had  placed  twenty  dollars  of  it  on  the  losing 
horse;  now  he  drew  a  handful  of  bills  and  gave  it  to 
the  other.  "Stick  two  hundred  on  at  any  price  you  can 
get." 

"Six  is  the  best.  You'll  lose  fourteen  hundred  by  not 
taking  the  odds  that  ran  last  night — we  simply  couldn't 
keep  this  quiet.  All  right — two  hundred  on  Edith  M." 
He  folded  the  money  and  gave  a  knowing  look.  "Say, 
that  mare  carries  a  swell  name,  doesn't  she?  Named 
for  Watt  diatom's  sister,  ain't  she?" 

"Yes."  For  an  instant  Ham  resented  Edith's  name 
on  the  tipster's  lips,  the  flicker  of  a  flame  of  respect 
that  died  away.  After  all,  what  was  she  ?  Merely  the 
fine  gold  of  the  pyramid's  point,  whose  base  was 
builded  in  the  nameless  evil  of  the  city ;  the  enriching 
soil  in  which  she  bloomed  an  exquisite  flower,  was  but 
the  rotted  lives  of  other  flowers  as  fair.  He  indiffer- 
ently recalled  the  two  symbols,  while  his  eyes  were  on 
the  racing  chart  on  the  theater  wall,  its  marginal  ad- 
vertisements of  the  lotteries,  the  clairvoyants,  the  pawn- 
brokers and  the  liquor  dealers.  "Yes,  Edith  M — in  the 
Narcissus." 


CHAPTER  XII 

Arnold  met  Fred  Weldy  by  appointment  after  the 
matinee,  and  took  him  to  a  four-bit  French  dinner  on 
Stockton  Street  where  an  indifferent  stringed  orchestra 
played;  a  nondescript  table  d'  hote  given  over  largely 
to  prosperous  clerks,  heads  of  store  departments,  fam- 
ily parties — a  cafe  with  a  suggestion  of  Gallic  smart- 
ness but  tamely  respectable,  where  one  found  a  trio 
of  rosy-faced  stenographers,  middle-aged  married 
women,  spinsters  and  female  bookkeepers  who  could 
come  here  unattended  and  depart  to  the  plays  after 
their  cognac,  with  a  buzzing  sense  of  the  luxurious  un- 
importance of  things. 

"Kind  of  peaceful,"  Fred  Weldy  said,  as  he  sat  back 
after  the  roast  chicken  and  the  sprouts,  crop-full  and 
pleased.  Arnold  had  been  wittily  inclined,  drolly  giving 
forth  the  most  astonishing  theories  on  social  evolution 
and  the  philosophical  aspect  of  industrialism,  matters 
on  which  Weldy  loved  to  argue  with  a  prosy  but  Ger- 
man thoroughness. 

When  they  reached  the  coffee  the  legislator  was  re- 
plete with  satisfaction.  "Old  man,  it's  the  best,  com- 
fortablest  time  I've  had  since  we  had  our  big  dinner 
together  at  the  Fiore  d'  Italia,  way  last  fall  when  I 
concluded  Fd  go  into  politics.  Lord,  what  a  fool  I  was ! 
Here  I've  been  bullyragged  and  hauled  about  and  asked 
questions  on  a  hundred  things  I  didn't  dream  of.  What 

190 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  191 

the  devil  do  I  know  about  taxing  the  railroads  on  their 
earning  capacity  and  all  that  ?" 

Arnold  laughed  cheerily.  "Well,  you  certainly  are 
coming  in  for  a  lot  of  talk  on  this  special  committee, 
aren't  you  ?" 

"The  whole  city  delegation  is  wild  at  me,"  pursued 
Fred  dismally,  "and  the  railroad  lobby  threatens  me, 
and  the  members  tell  me  if  I  vote  to  investigate  the 
bribery  scandals,  they'll  beat  the  safety-coupler  bill  the 
labor  people  want.  And  yet  the  unions  are  dead  for  the 
inquiry." 

"Fred,  the  unions  don't  amount  to  a  tinker's  damn ! 
The  boss  and  Stillman  control  the  leaders — and  back 
of  the  boss  is  Chatom  and  the  railroad.  So  you  see  all 
this  yawp  about  bucking  the  organization,  and  deliver- 
ing the  people  from  the  corporation  cinch,  and  reform, 
and  all  that  stuff,  goes  right  round  in  a  circle.  Every- 
body is  traded  in  right.  Still,  the  big  men  inside  are  a 
little  bit  surprised  at  you." 

"O,  sure !  I  know  now  what  I  was  elected  for !  The 
push  wouldn't  have  got  behind  me  if  they  hadn't 
thought  I  was  all  right." 

"And  now  you're  putting  me  in  a  funny  fix,  Fred — 
you  know  I  stood  for  you.  I  said  the  word  in  the  back 
room  of  the  Maplewood  that  gave  you  the  nomination." 

The  statesman  stirred  restlessly.  "Sure  —  sure! 
Ham,  you're  going  to  plague  me,  too,  ain't  you?  It's 
getting  savage.  Why,  they've  even  gone  to  my  wife — 
somebody  did — and  the  police  captain  has  been  at  Unc' 
Pop's  a  dozen  times  of  late  just  talking  around  about 
his  side  door,  and  if  women  come  in  there — just  think 
—at  Unc' Pop's!" 


192  THE   DAY   OF    SOULS 

"Fred,  I'm  glad  you  see  it.  It's  how  the  system 
works." 

"But  what's  the  racing  bribery  got  to  do  with  Unc' 
Pop  ?  Women  ? — why  if  they  want  to  get  after  women 
drinking,  why  don't  they  raid  some  of  these  big  down- 
town joints?"  Weldy's  indignation  overflowed,  and 
Arnold  laughed  his  amusement.  Fred  never  would 
learn ;  he  was  always  the  boy. 

"And  the  Central  Security  Company  holds  a  mort- 
gage on  your  home  for  two  thousand  dollars,  doesn't 
it?" 

Weldy  turned  on  him,  staring  with  excitement. 
"What— what— how'd  you  know  ?" 

"Well,  don't  attract  every  one's  attention.  Come, 
let's  get  out.  Only — "  Arnold's  grave  voice  came  to 
the  legislator's  ear — "I  wanted  to  have  you  see  the 
knives  at  your  back,  Fred.  I'm  trying  to  put  you  wise." 

The  assemblyman  was  dazed  when  they  reached  the 
sidewalk;  he  put  his  hand  through  his  friend's  arm. 
Suddenly  it  seemed  that  the  Burgundy  they  had  drunk 
had  made  him  dizzy.  "I'm  crazy  in  the  head,"  he  mut- 
tered apathetically ;  "kind-a  crazy  in  the  head." 

They  walked  through  Union  Square  to  the  bar  of  a 
little  corner  grocery  on  Bush  Street.  Weldy  drank 
whisky  feverishly ;  he  seemed  trying  to  widen  his  brain 
to  an  avalanche  of  new  thoughts,  doubts,  fears.  "My 
business  is  running  down,"  he  muttered.  "I  want-a 
quit — I  can't  afford  this  legislature  game.  I'm  build- 
ing a  new  house,  Ham,  a  new  house — and  we — and 
we — "  he  meandered  off  unintelligibly,  gulping  his 
whisky  and  staring  at  the  mirrors. 

Arnold  quietly  allowed  him  drink  and  meditation  to 


THE   DAY   OF    SOULS  193 

the  full;  and  with  drink  and  thought  he  weakened 
pitiably.  His  tongue  loosened,  he  went  on  with  a  gar- 
rulous recounting  of  his  business  troubles;  it  was  a 
critical  time  for  him — he  was  a  partner  in  the  job- 
printing  office,  and  he  had  not  yet  paid  up  his  share  of 
the  investing  capital ;  living  was  high,  it  took  a  lot  for 
Lillie  and  the  babies  and  for  his  mother's  keep,  and  he 
didn't  know — he  ought  to  be  home  looking  after  things, 
and  not  in  this  fool  legislature. 

They  went  to  the  quiet  back  room  of  another  saloon, 
had  a  drink,  and  then  Arnold  doggedly  fired  another 
shot  at  him.  "Let's  see,  the  Londale  Liquor  Company 
is  carrying  Unc'  Pop  on  its  books  for  fifteen  hundred 
dollars,  isn't  it?" 

Fred  stared  at  him  again  with  amazement.  He  didn't 
know — he  supposed  so — he  couldn't  see  how  Ham 
knew  all  these  things  and  what  they  had  to  do  with  the 
case,  and  yet? — well,  of  course  the  wholesaler  had  to 
"stand  in" — sure,  that  was  it — he  could  see ! 

"They  figure  on  all  these  things,"  Ham  continued 
patiently,  and  then  he  fired  the  last  shot.  "Fred,  your 
shop  had  the  contract  for  a  great  big  lot  of  the 
printing  for  the  Street  Railway  Company  last  year, 
didn't  it?" 

"Yes,  we  dropped  everything  else  for  that.  It's  a  big 
item." 

"And  you  want  it  again,  don't  you  ?" 

"Why — why — sure,  we've  been  figuring  on  it.  We 
loaded  up  on  a  lot  of  paper  stock  thinking  of  their  re- 
quirements. We're  going  to  bid  sharp,  for  we  need 
that  business  pretty  bad." 

"Well,  if  you  stand  right,  you  can  get  it — I  know 


I94  THE  DAY   OF    SOULS 

you  can!  There's  a  lot  of  stuff  can  come  your  way, 
Fred,  if  you're  wise." 

The  assemblyman  was  in  doubt,  then  slowly  he  saw 
the  matter.  He  smiled  sadly  on  his  friend.  "I  suppose 
it's  up  to  me  to  vote  against  the  investigation,  ain't  it  ? 
Throw  down  my  union  and  all  the  decent  people  for  the 
gamblers'  ring,  ain't  it  ?  God's  sake,  Ham,  I  thought  I 
was  going  there  to  be  square!"  He  laughed  briefly. 
"But  I'm  getting  in  bad — I'm  beginning  to  need  money, 
Ham." 

"Money?"  Arnold's  voice  was  softly  alert;  he 
leaned  across  the  table. 

"O,  well,  I  meant  in  general."  Weldy's  face  red- 
dened. "I  meant  I  was  getting  hard  up,  with  the  new 
house  and  all !" 

"I  know.  Fred,  there's  plenty  of  money  around — it's 
easy  enough  to  get.  And  why  not  ?  What's  the  use  of 
stirring  this  rottenness  up?  Nobody  wants  it  except 
women  and  a  few  farmers  and  some  dinky  Methodist 
and  Baptist  brothers  who  haven't  drag  enough  to  scare 
a  fly  off  your  hat.  The  big  churches,  such  as  Chatom 
attends,  don't  want  it.  They  never  attack  anything 
there,  they're  too  busy  praising  God.  They're  afraid 
He'll  forget  His  business  if  they  don't  sing  anthems 
and  swing  candlesticks  and  tell  Him  how  good  He  is." 

"O,  I  don't  know— I  don't  know,"  protested  the 
printer.  "I  don't  go  to  church,  but  I  always  thought 
truth  and  justice  got  ahead  somehow." 

"Truth  and  justice,"  retorted  Ham,  with  sermoniz- 
ing seriousness,  "always  meet  with  reward  if  they're 
sufficiently  advertised — and  they  don't  hurt  business. 
Otherwise  there's  not  much  demand  for  the  goods." 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  195 

"O,  I  don't  know;"  Weldy  was  troubled  and  con- 
fused. "There's  Christ  and  what  He  taught." 

"Christ's  out  on  the  street,"  Arnold  murmured. 
"The  wise  people  higher  up  couldn't  do  business  with 
Him  around." 

They  had  gone  to  the  pavement,  Weldy  seeking  ref- 
uge in  self  pity.  "We  got-a  hold  that  contract — my 
partner's  no  hustler,  Ham,"  he  pleaded.  "O,  we  just 
got-a  hold  that  printing — the  shop's  running  down." 
And  in  the  dark  Arnold  swung  on  him  with  a  sud- 
den, vicious  snap. 

"Well,  how  is  it,  Fred?"  he  whispered.  "Do  you 
need  money?" 

"Money?  God's  sake — what're  you  talking  money 
for  ?"  Fred's  voice,  too,  was  in  a  whisper ;  he  tried  to 
assume  a  trembling  indignation,  but  the  quiver  in  his 
tone  was  not  of  anger. 

"Do  you  need  a  loan  ?" 

"A  man  can  always  use  money.  But  you — don't  you 
think—" 

Arnold's  hand  went  to  Fred's  in  the  dark.  The  as- 
semblyman felt  the  crinkle  of  bills  crushed  in  his 
fingers.  He  backed  off,  coughing  weakly  to  hide  his 
confusion.  "I  got-a  go  to  Unc'  Pop's.  Yes,  sir — Unc' 
Pop's.  God's  sake,  Ham— Unc'  Pop's!" 

The  briber  followed  him  a  few  steps  in  the  deserted 
street.  "Two  hundred  and  fifty,"  he  whispered ;  "and 
two-fifty  more  coming,  Fred." 

"Sure — sure!"  murmured  the  legislator,  laughing 
foolishly.  "It's  getting  late,  ain't  it?  Sure— sure!" 

Arnold  watched  him  go  hurriedly  up  the  hill.  His 
friend  was  strangely  bent  and  old,  it  appeared,  or  it 


196  THE  DAY   OF   SOULS 

may  have  been  the  flicker  of  the  arc-lights  on  him. 
The  other  man  lit  a  cigarette  and  sauntered  leisurely 
down-town.  "I  got  him,"  he  murmured  apathetically. 
"But  what  chance  did  he  have  ?  It's  like  a  wolf-pack 
hunting — what  chance  did  he  have?  The  whole  town 
was  on  his  back — the  wolf  town.  What  chance  did  he 
have?" 

And  the  fancy  of  himself  leading  a  pack  of  gray 
wolves,  hunting  down  a  wounded  animal,  dragging  it 
to  the  snow,  throttling  it  as  its  struggles  weakened, 
moodily  fascinated  him.  Then  a  trouble  grew  on  him 
that  he  could  view  the  matter  so  apathetically.  But  he 
dulled  this:  "Why  should  I  be  sorry?  It's  wolf  eat 
wolf  in  this  game — every  man  for  himself.  Fred's  of 
age,  he  knows  where  he's  going." 

Yet  the  memory  of  his  big  bluff  friend,  uncertain, 
feeling  this  way  and  that  for  help,  dumbly  hurt,  and 
then  dragged  down  by  the  gray  wolves  of  the  city, 
haunted  Arnold.  "I  led  them,"  he  murmured.  "I'm 
the  outlaw,  but  I  joined  the  pack  to  pull  Fred  down." 
He  was  revolving  the  matter,  still  impersonally,  view- 
ing his  other  self  from  afar,  when  a  newsboy  thrust 
a  sporting  extra  of  a  paper  in  his  hand:  "Winner'n 
Narcissus !  Extra !"  he  caroled. 

Watt  Chatom's  filly,  Edith  M,  had  beaten  Bianca 
easily  in  the  fourth  race. 

"Eleven  hundred  to  the  good,"  murmured  Arnold, 
but  his  winning  gave  him  no  pleasure.  He  was  sur- 
feited with  the  track,  sleepless  with  ill-reckoned  nights. 
Ferreri  had  told  him  that  he  "looked  shot  to  pieces," 
and  he  knew  to-night  that  drinking  had  failed  to  drive 
the  pricking  devils  from  his  brain.  "I  ought  to  get 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  197 

away  a  week  or  two,"  he  mused ;  and  his  fancies  went 
back  to  the  brown,  sun-beaten  ranges  along  the  Tuo- 
lumne,  where  he  had  been  a  boy,  and  then  the  green, 
steaming  jungles  of  Mindanao  and  Samar,  where  he 
and  Larry  Calhoun  had  been  bunkies.  He  wondered 
now,  with  a  singular  melancholy  sentiment,  of  their 
peace.  And  then  the  North  rose,  the  giant  redwoods 
spanning  rocky  gorges  sunless  and  still.  Above,  the 
trails  led  to  the  brushy  ridges  and  piney  slopes,  the 
country-up-in-back  where  once,  for  four  weeks,  he  had 
been  happy,  it  seemed ;  where  he  had  been  able  to 
make  a  simple  country  girl  smile,  and  watch  her  eye 
brighten  at  his  coming. 

"But  I  didn't  love  her,"  he  murmured  slowly. 
"That's  dead  in  me.  It's  good  the  little  girl  found  it 
out — it's  better  so — much  better!" 

But  the  stinging  imps  bothered  his  head,  and  going 
to  the  Oriental,  he  had  three  drinks.  Then  because  the 
place  was  quiet,  and  he  could  not  tolerate  silence  any 
longer,  he  went  to  the  street,  seeking  something  to 
make  him  forget. 

Grant  Avenue  was  emptying  itself  at  half-past  nine ; 
the  impossible  street  of  fakirs  and  proclaimers  of  revo- 
lutions and  millenniums  was  losing  its  motley  life,  but 
over  one  last  dissolving  group  came  the  splendor  of  a 
woman's  voice. 

Again  he  saw  her,  the  black  robe  swaying,  the  aston- 
ishing appeal  of  the  serene  face  under  the  torch,  the 
light  bronzing  the  huddled  men  before  her.  A  mor- 
dant desire  to  bait  her  further  came,  for  to-night  his 
soul  seemed  dead,  rolling  in  its  abyss.  He  had  had  a 
note  from  her  weeks  ago,  inclosing  a  check  for  one 


ip8  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

hundred  and  sixty-five  dollars.  She  had  been  forced  to 
accept  his  statement  of  the  amount  lost.  He  had  seen 
her  twice  since  on  her  rostrum,  giving  her  little 
thought.  After  all,  she  was  but  a  superior  fakir  of 
this  town  of  fakirs.  Unreal,  Romanesque,  impossible, 
she  was  but  one  of  San  Francisco's  down-town  figures 
that  defied  placing.  Watching  her,  he  drew  a  sense 
of  weariness  from  her  utterance;  saw  it,  too,  in  the 
impassive  men  who  listened.  He  was  below  her  stand 
when  she  looked  down  at  the  conclusion.  A  color 
touched  her  cheeks — a  moment's  confusion  at  his 
speech. 

"How's  the  harvest?  I  take  it  they  reject  your 
pearls?" 

"Wise,  hopeless  faces — souls  impotent,  asleep.  It's 
a  hard  town,  isn't  it?" 

She  gathered  her  robe  to  go,  while  a  negro  removed 
the  stand,  and  with  a  jesting  commonplace  Arnold  was 
by  her  side,  dropping  his  argot  of  the  street.  She  felt 
his  indifferent  insolence  of  mood ;  an  intellectual  fenc- 
ing, but  in  mutual  understanding,  possessed  both.  But 
she  became  serene,  her  clear  practicality  came  out  in 
their  rambling  talk,  and  presently  his  corroding  ten- 
sion lessened — she  could  laugh,  be  human,  of  the 
world,  could  she? 

But  this  lashed  his  evil  humor,  a  reckless  whim 
seized  him.  "Where  are  you  going?"  he  asked. 

"I  haven't  an  idea!  I  walk  a  deal  at  night  before 
I  go  to  the  hotel." 

A  thought  came  to  him  that  she  was  keenly  enjoy- 
ing the  respite.  Well,  he  would  try  out  this  spiritual 
sufficing  of  hers,  this  dilettante  offering  of  soul  to  his 


THE   DAY.   OF   SOULS  199 

mocking  world.  It  was  a  matter  of  indifference  what 
she  thought  of  him.  He  had  never  been  serious  with 
women ;  least  of  all  with  serious  women,  few  though 
they  were  in  his  life.  "Suppose  we  go  somewhere  and 
talk,"  he  said.  "To  the  Belvedere." 

"Very  well." 

"The  Belvedere?"    He  stared  at  her. 

"The  concert  hall— let's  go.    I've  never  seen  it." 

He  thought  at  first  she  was  having  fun  at  his  ex- 
pense, but  beyond  her  frank  pleasantness,  she  was  in- 
tent enough.  He  guessed  slowly  at  her  view  of  the 
matter — she  would  be,  as  always,  superiorly  above  it, 
beyond  contamination,  or  even  discomfort,  in  her 
power  of  detachment  from  the  world's  grossness. 
None  of  this  mattered — the  soul  moved  untouched 
through  all  forms  and  phases  of  consciousness,  and 
neither  evil  nor  suffering  could  lessen  it. 

Arnold  glanced  up  the  street  in  some  irresolution. 
But  she  was  pleasantly  human,  supremely  sure  of  her- 
self. 

"Well,"  he  went  on,  "won't  you  be  rather  conspicu- 
ous in  that  rig?"  He  looked  at  the  classic  robe,  the 
mortar-board  cap  on  her  dark  hair.  "You  see,  the 
Belvedere—" 

"I  don't  mind — I'm  used  to  the  multitude,  and  its 
stares." 

"Well — "  The  young  man  looked  again  in  some 
consternation  up  the  brilliant  street.  Already  a  trio 
of  his  cronies  had  noted  them.  "You  see — " 

"You  don't  mind,  do  you?"  she  began,  watching  his 
face.  He  had  a  sense  of  her  amusement  at  his  hesita- 
tion. 


200  THE   DAY   OF    SOULS 

"Well,  the  Belvedere — it's  pretty  swift — for  a 
preacher !" 

"Why,  nothing  can  harm  one,  can  it?" 

"But  you're  religious.  Won't  people — your  friends 
—church—" 

"I  haven't  a  friend  in  San  Francisco — hardly  one 
in  America.  I  am  alone,  untrammeled — free  to  do  ex- 
actly as  I  wish  on  all  occasions." 

She  had  already  led  the  way.  Arnold  went  along 
in  some  amazed  doubt  of  himself. 

Take  her  to  the  Belvedere? — in  that  rig?  She  was 
a  woman  who  would  have  won  the  street's  eye  in  the 
gown  of  a  fishwife,  a  cloak,  a  shawl — she  would  have 
irradiated  distinction  from  anything.  And  she  now 
turned  in  to  the  Belvedere  Music  Hall  at  his  side,  in 
that  black  filmy  silk,  enveloping  her  from  chin  to  toe, 
relieved  nowhere  save  by  a  tiny  gold  cross  at  her 
throat,  and  on  her  head  that  unusual  cap  shading  her 
face,  a  classic  face  that  stirred  the  crowd  in  the  hall, 
the  clerks,  touts,  jockeys,  dope  fiends,  bar-habitues, 
street  politicians  and  riffraff  with  their  women,  until 
a  whispering  comment  buzzed  after  her  entry. 

Arnold  tried  to  look  expressionless  as  he  followed 
her  and  the  shifty-footed  usher  up  the  aisle.  They 
all  knew  him  at  the  Belvedere,  the  former  prize-fight- 
ers who  acted  as  stewards  and  announcers,  the  bar- 
keepers, the  politician  proprietors  and  their  followers 
— Arnold  caught  the  amazed  gasp  from  some  of  them 
— and  they,  for  the  greater  part,  knew  her.  Grace 
Wayne  was  a  figure  too  challenging  in  the  down- 
town life  for  any  idler  to  leave  unremarked,  for  any 
cigar-store  philosopher  to  omit  from  his  summing  up 


THE   DAY   OF    SOULS  201 

of  the  Street.  Arnold  felt  like  a  captive  bound  to  the 
chariot  wheels  of  some  priestess  in  a  barbaric  triumph. 

The  spacious  auditorium,  gorgeous  with  lights  under 
a  delicately  pink  dome  starred  as  a  firmament,  was 
well  filled.  The  curtain  before  the  stage  was  a  jumble 
of  advertisements,  among  which  was  that  of  a  new 
march-song  that  the  orchestra  was  just  concluding — a 
stirring  two-step  by  W.  Walters,  which  all  the  town 
was  humming.  A  brass  rail  down  the  hall  divided  the 
place  reserved  for  women  and  their  escorts  from  the 
section  where  the  men  drank  and  smoked  at  the  little 
tables.  A  droning  murmur  of  voices  rose,  the  in- 
imitable jargon  of  the  track  and  prize-ring,  the  cigar 
stores  and  the  Street. 

The  two  proprietors  who  were  promoters  of  the 
great  monthly  prize-ring  contests  and  controllers  of  the 
vote  in  the  district  went  about  joshing  their  patrons 
with  impartial  urbanity — it  was  "Jimmie,"  or  "Billy," 
or  "the  Kid,"  or  "this  guy" — everywhere  the  youthful, 
happy-go-lucky,  alluringly  cheerful,  roystering,  cos- 
mopolitan spirit  of  Old  San  Francisco/  which  would 
gild  the  blackest  sin  with  the  charm  of  humanness. 

Every  one  was  good-natured ;  the  waiters  laughingly 
struggled  through  groups  with  their  trays ;  the  women 
at  the  tables  bantered  them,  the  busy  stewards  circu- 
lated here  and  there — everywhere  a  humming  cordial- 
ity in  speech  and  manner,  the  most  amicable  forbear- 
ance and  happy  adjustment  with  careless  tact  and  native 
grace.  When  the  curtain  shot  up,  the  orchestra  broke 
to  a  rollicking  dance.  Two  girls  in  black  jeweled 
velvet  skirts,  low-cut  bodices  and  with  immense  plumed 
hats,  bright-eyed,  smiling,  humorously  en  rapport  with 


202  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

the  audience,  sang  a  song  of  the  day,  kicked  their 
silken-clad  legs  with  a  merry  adieu,  and  then  were  hur- 
ried into  an  encore  in  the  words  of  which  the  spec- 
tators joined  joyously,  while  the  Hungarian  orchestra 
leader  turned  with  a  bow  and  smile  to  beat  the  time  for 
the  volunteers. 

Arnold  and  his  companion  sat  at  a  table  near  the 
wall.  Save  for  their  nearer  neighbors,  they  were  now 
unobserved.  He  watched  the  woman's  face;  it  was 
radiant  with  interest,  speculation,  humor  at  the  care- 
less spirit  about  her.  "Apollinaris,"  she  nodded  to  her 
host  when  the  waiter  approached. 

"A  bottle  and  two  glasses,"  said  Arnold,  and  then 
to  her:  "May  I  smoke?" 

"Why,  of  course." 

The  young  man  watched  her  coloring  under  the 
gloss  of  her  black  hair  and  cap,  the  large  nose,  the 
shrewd  mouth,  the  indistinguishable  depths  of  her 
eyes ;  healthily  big,  firm  of  mold,  the  shoulders  square, 
the  arms  and  throat  full,  she  seemed  very  human,  and 
not  at  all  the  mystic. 

"A  preacher  ?"  he  murmured,  "not  on  my  life !  Now, 
what's  her  graft  underneath  that  classy  little  cap  ?" 

Then  he  saw  Louis  Ferreri  and  Bernice  Murasky  at 
a  table  some  distance  away.  The  Jewess'  eyes  were 
round  with  astonishment;  she  couldn't  watch  the 
vaudeville,  for  her  study  of  this  new  "find"  of  Ar- 
nold's. 

Ferreri  took  the  shop-girl  often  to  the  great  cafes 
and  down-town  resorts  because  her  brilliance  fed  his 
pride,  filled  his  vacant  mind  in  its  easy  moments.  She 
could  dress  well,  somehow,  and  at  Zinkand's  or  the 


THE  DAY   OF   SOULS  203 

Poodle  Dog,  would  talk  volubly,  gesticulate  eagerly 
and  enjoy  herself  so  ingenuously  that  they  would 
always  attract  attention,  and  Ferreri,  sitting  back  be- 
hind the  chafing-dish— "lobster  Newburg,"  or  "en 
casserole"  dishes  which  she  would  order  with  an  air 
of  familiar  indifference,  with  the  champagne — would 
be  vastly  flattered  by  the  occasion.  Bernice  Murasky 
"had  all  the  swell  Yits  along  Pacific  Avenue  beaten  a 
block,"  to  his  way  of  thinking;  all  she  needed  was 
money  to  "make  a  front  in  any  class." 

At  times  the  slot-machine  man  thought  he  would 
like  to  marry  Bernice  if  she  wasn't  so  terribly 
sarcastic. 

Miss  Murasky  made  a  petulant  moue  when  she  saw 
Hammy  Arnold  looking  at  her.  "What  kind  of  woman 
has  he  got  now?"  she  whispered  to  Ferreri,  who  was 
rubbing  his  tiger's  head  diamond,  debating  whether  he 
shouldn't  exchange  it  for  the  forget-me-not. 

Arnold's  urbanity  was  now  not  disturbed  at  the  stir 
his  entrance  had  created.  He'd  give  O'Farrell  Street 
something  else  to  buzz  about  with  his  name,  besides 
graft  talk  and  spectacular  sprees  and  plunging  on  the 
races — the  Belvedere  had  certainly  never  entertained 
a  woman  such  as  he  had  brought  there ! 

Grace  Wayne's  gloved  hand  attracted  his  attention 
across  the  table.  "Why,  this  isn't  so  bad,"  she  said 
demurely.  "Not  as  I  thought." 

"It'll  liven  up  after  midnight.  TEese  show  girls 
will  sell  drinks  down-stairs  and  there'll  be  a  run  for 
your  money  if  you  care  to  have  it." 

"I've  seen  much  worse — the  dance-halls  of  Cape 
Colony  and  the  East  End  music  halls.  This  is  well 


204  THE   DAY   OF    SOULS 

dressed — a  glass  of  beer  and  some  silly  music,  it 
seems." 

"You're  rather  a  student  of  the  world,"  he  answered, 
and  looked  at  her  in  some  new  light.  A  sort  of  dainty 
humanness  had  grown  out  of  her  usual  impersonality 
of  utterance;  he  gathered  that  she  was  not  all  the 
mystic.  "I  supposed  you  would  find  all  this  beyond 
the  pale." 

"When  one  has  made  sure  of  one's  own  serenity  one 
can  see  best — one  can  move  untouched  through  any 
experiences  of  the  lower  plane." 

"How  does  that  help?" 

"Help  ?"  she  asked  at  his  abruptness. 

"I  was  thinking  of  the  rest — down  here.  Your  way 
is  good — for  you.  But  we're  hammering  out  some- 
thing else  than  spiritual  consciousness."  He  smiled 
coolly.  "I  told  you  once  you'd  failed  in  your  new 
thought — you  have." 

"I  have  not,"  she  retorted  steadily,  gravely.  "I've 
taught  the  newer  interpretation.  Old  faiths,  old  forms 
are  passing,  and  out  of  the  spiritual  unrest  there  is 
coming  the  recognition  of  the  power  in  each  soul — it 
can  accept,  it  can  move  untouched,  and  in  the  end  re- 
join the  eternal  and  ever-flowing  spirit  of  God." 

He  studied  her  long  in  the  measure  of  the  dance 
music,  smiled,  and  she  saw  a  trace  of  pity.  To  him 
she  was  the  apotheosis  of  the  rant  of  the  city  of  fakirs. 
Beyond  that — nothing. 

"My  soul?"  he  muttered.  "Give  me  a  sign  that  I 
have  one."  But  through  his  ironical  aloofness  came  a 
feeling  that  she  was  weaving  invisible  cords,  checking 


THE   DAY    OF   SOULS  205 

him,  and  that  he  was  too  conscious  of  her  physical 
magnetism,  and  he  did  not  wish  to  be  held  or  attracted. 

"You're  changed,"  she  said,  intently  watching  him. 
"You've  gone  back  since  I  saw  you.  A  soul  strug- 
gling, but  you  refuse  to  awaken." 

His  lips  had  a  slur  of  contempt  which  she  could  not 
guess.  "I  am,"  he  answered,  "just  what  I  wish  to  be 
— a  thief,  a  liar." 

"Go  on,"  she  answered;  "lie  to  yourself — whip 
yourself — "  Her  eyes  grew  wide,  he  was  restless  be- 
neath their  mystery. 

"And  you — "  he  added — "a  mummer — a  talker  of 
words  that  mean  nothing.  If  I  wanted  a  God  it  would 
be  the  old  God  and  not  a  cloud  of  light  into  which  I  was 
to  be  returned,  a  mere  aura  of  consciousness  floating 
through  existences.  I  would  want  to  go  back  to  the 
old  God  and  cry  out  that  I  was  beaten  and  down,  and 
say:  'Help  me!'" 

Her  look  on  him  had  a  dispassionate  sweetness  defy- 
ing analysis.  "You  have  suffered,"  she  whispered. 
"O,  you  have  come  far!"  And  her  clear  gaze  con- 
tinued. "You  have  all  the  power  within  you — you  are 
supreme — you  can  rise  above  all  this  brawling — that  is 
my  faith  for  you."  She  went  on  with  a  swift  impulse : 
"I  tell  you,  this  is  not  you!" 

He  tried  to  evade  her  with  indifference,  the  jesting 
that  was  ever  his  shield.  "Well,  and  then  what — what 
of  it  all  ?" 

The  orchestra  broke  to  a  smart  fantasy,  the  hall 
darkened,  a  curtain  rose,  showing  a  white  screen. 
From  the  gallery  came  the  snap  of  a  moving  picture 
machine,  the  hiss  of  the  carbon.  Arnold  could  see  his 


206  THE   DAY   OF    SOULS 

companion's  face,  hurt,  in  a  sort  of  proud  patience,  re- 
garding him.  He  was  restless  beneath  the  sense  of 
power  she  gave,  and  had  turned  from  her  to  the  green 
light  pervading  the  room,  when  a  man  leaned  across 
and  touched  his  arm. 

"Ham,  is  that  you?" 

It  was  Hendricks,  of  the  Call. 

"Hello,  Ben;  yes." 

"You'd  better  come.  A  note  was  left  for  you — a 
note" — the  newspaper  man  bent  down  with  a  queer 
smile — "the  police  have  it." 

"A  note?" 

"Eddie  Ledyard  left  it  to  you — he  killed  himself 
half  an  hour  ago." 

Miss  Wayne  felt  the  man  by  her  strain  in  his  seat ; 
his  elbow  went  against  her  arm  with  a  shove  that  put 
it  off  the  table. 

"It's  bad,"  the  Call  man  went  on.  "The  races  broke 
him — maybe  he's  short  in  his  accounts.  You'd  better 
come." 

Arnold  swung  out  of  his  chair.  "His  mother — his 
sister — "  he  muttered.  "Benny,  break  this  story,  can't 
you  ?  Can't  you  kill  it  in  the  local  room  ?" 

"Couldn't  be  done.  But  we  won't  flash  the  racing 
business  in  it — it  isn't  policy  just  now — we  can't  afford 
to  stir  talk  on  the  track." 

The  other  did  not  hear  his  words.  He  was  slipping 
down  the  aisle  to  the  door,  past  the  stilled  crowds 
watching  the  moving  pictures.  Over  his  head  the 
biograph  snapped  and  sizzled — it  seemed  that  the  arc 
was  in  his  brain ;  he  reeled  against  the  doorkeeper  and 
then  to  the  pavement. 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  207 

"Where  ?"  he  whispered — he  did  not  notice  that  the 
woman  was  at  Benny's  side — "where  ?" 

"Stillman's — in  the  gold  room.  Kennedy's  got  the 
note." 

The  young  man  turned  and  ran  the  two  blocks  to 
the  Maplewood  saloon.  In  the  bar-room  there  was  no 
unusual  group,  only  a  policeman  at  the  door  leading  to 
the  rear,  and  a  white-aproned  "mixer"  peering  past 
him  into  the  passage.  The  officer  lowered  his  arm, 
then  raised  it  so  that  Arnold  dodged  under.  Before 
the  door  of  the  gold  room,  a  captain  of  police  and  an- 
other patrolman  were  listening  to  an  explanation  from 
Fergy,  the  head  bar-keeper,  and  a  reporter  stood  with 
arms  extended,  hands  on  his  hips,  looking  quietly  in 
the  small  room. 

Captain  Kennedy  stepped  back.  "Jack — is  that  you  ? 
— say,  Jack,  here — " 

But  Arnold  was  past  them.  A  revolver  was  on  the 
table.  On  the  leather  top  of  the  broad  seat  that  ran 
about  the  room  under  the  polished  panels  of  white 
birch  and  inlaid  gold,  lay  the  suicide.  Nella  Free  had 
one  arm  under  his  sunny  head.  She  was  wiping  spat- 
tered blood  from  his  cheek  and  from  the  lashes  of  his 
wide-open  eyes.  Blood  was  on  the  floor,  the  seat,  the 
wondrous  wooden  panels,  the  girl's  gloves  and  the  lace 
of  her  waist. 

Arnold  ran  around  her  with  a  cry  and  knelt  by  her 
side,  reaching  his  hand  under  Eddie's  coat,  dragging 
his  limp  head  nearer  to  stare  in  his  eyes. 

"Yes,  he's  gone,"  he  said,  with  a  sort  of  nonchal- 
ance ;  "he's  gone." 

Nella  broke  into  sobs  as  she  continued  to  sponge  the 


208  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

dead  boy's  face.  Arnold  dragged  the  body  nearer,  so 
that  it  was  as  if  the  man  and  woman  were  struggling 
over  it  with  monosyllabic  protests.  The  police  captain 
touched  the  young  man's  arm.  "Here,  here — "  he 
said-^'you'd  better  take  her  away — Stillman's  girl — 
ain't  it  ?  Ham,  take  her  away." 

"Never  mind,"  retorted  Arnold,  "he's  gone — Eddie's 
gone." 

Then  he  put  his  arm  upon  Nella's  shoulder.  "Don't 
cry,  Kid,  don't  you  cry !" 

There  was  a  stir  at  the  door.  Hendricks  and  Miss 
Wayne  appeared.  The  latter  came  to  the  group  by  the 
seat — the  dead  boy,  the  girl  wiping  his  cheek,  Arnold 
and  the  police  captain. 

Captain  Kennedy  again  touched  Arnold's  shoulder. 
"Here,"  he  muttered. 

The  young  man  took  the  crumpled  note  which  had 
been  found  on  the  table.  His  name  was  on  the  back 
in  the  boyish  scrawl  he  had  known  since  his  high- 
school  days.  Within  was  written: 

"Hammy,  you  said  Bianca  in  the  fourth." 

Another  stir  at  the  door.  The  coroner's  assistants 
had  arrived.  The  gold  room  filled,  a  buzz  of  voices 
raised. 

Arnold  turned  listlessly  away;  he  wiped  the  blood 
from  his  hands  on  the  table  top  and  then,  seeing  the 
smear,  rubbed  it  out  with  his  sleeve. 

"Hammy,  get  her  away — Cri's  sake — get  her  away !" 

Arnold  turned  as  the  officer  plucked  his  coat.  He 
went  to  Nella  and  lifted  her  hand  which  held  the 
stained  wet  handkerchief.  "Come  on,  Nel !" 

She  shook  herself  free,  and  he  turned  about  to  meet 


THE   DAY   OF    SOULS  209 

Miss  Wayne.  "Help  me,"  he  muttered,  "help  me, 
won't  you?"  » 

She  stooped  to  lift  the  girl,  turning  her  face  to  the 
door.  Arnold  took  the  other  arm  and  they  led  her 
out  and  through  the  corridor  to  the  side  door  of  the 
Maplewood,  and  then  to  the  street.  The  three  went 
past  the  police  patrol  at  the  curb,  the  little  curious 
throng.  The  street  was  ablaze  with  lights,  the  after- 
theater  crowds  streaming  on  to  the  cafes,  the  flare  of 
the  radiant  doors  open  here,  there,  everywhere. 

By  one  window  which  revealed  a  sea  of  white 
napery,  shining  plate  and  silver,  each  table  illumined 
with  carnations  around  which  little  parties  were  form- 
ing, the  three  paused. 

Nella  rubbed  the  red  splashes  from  her  white  gloves 
with  a  handkerchief. 

"I  kept  him  away  from  me — just  as  you  said — " 
she  retorted  on  the  man — "but  it  was  we  that  killed 
him — you  said  Bianca  in  the  fourth !" 

Arnold  nodded. 

"You  said  Bianca — in  the  fourth,"  repeated  the  girl. 

Miss  Wayne  glanced  from  one  to  the  other.  They 
were  both  looking  at  the  blood  on  their  hands. 


CHAPTER   XIII 

They  went  along  a  little  way,  the  girl  dulled  and 
sullen,  and  the  young  man  heeding  nothing  of  the 
street  people  and  the  tumult.  Miss  Wayne  stopped 
again  presently,  and  said:  "You'd  better  wash  this 
off  somewhere — it  looks  bad,  and  then — hadn't  you 
better  go  home  ?" 

She  looked  at  Nella,  and  the  girl  laughed  feebly, 
drawing  the  veil  below  her  chin.  "Home?  I  want  a 
drink.  Let's  go  in  Skelly's — I  feel  like  I  was  going  to 
pieces.  Do  I  look  white — am  I  ?" 

Arnold  took  her  arm  and  turned  to  the  side  entrance 
of  the  cafe.  When  the  three  were  in  the  private  box, 
Nella  threw  back  the  veil  and  rubbed  her  cheeks  with 
a  piece  of  chamois.  "Do  I  look  pale  ? — am  I  ?" 

She  stared  across  the  little  table  at  the  man  who 
looked  back  at  her. 

"Now,  don't  cry!"  he  muttered.  "For  God's  sake, 
Nel— don't!" 

"No,"  she  retorted ;  "you're  the  one  it's  hurting  so. 
We  killed  him,  Hammy." 

"Not  you,"  he  answered.  "I  got  him  in  this  busi- 
ness long  ago — yes,  I  killed  him.  But  you  were  with 
him,  Nel— tell  me." 

"There's  not  much."  The  girl's  eyes  went  from 
Arnold  to  the  woman  by  his  side  in  apathetic  question- 
ing of  her  confidence.  "I  was  in  Harry's  place  to- 

210 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  211 

night  with  another  girl,  and  Eddie  came  in  through 
the  ball-room  and  saw  us  in  a  box.  After  Myrtle  had 
gone,  he  came  to  me.  He  looked  terrible,  and  after 
while  he  told  me  everything.  He'd  lost  eight  hundred 
dollars  on  the  Narcissus — and  it  wasn't  his." 

Arnold  stirred  restlessly,  but  his  eyes  did  not  leave 
her  face.  "Go  on !"  he  muttered. 

"O,  that's  just  all !"  the  girl  cried.  "He  didn't  blame 
any  one — he  just  said  he  was  a  fool.  And  he  wanted 
to  get  away  anywhere  with  me — me!  I  laughed,  of 
course,  and  wouldn't,  and  I  tried  to  cheer  him  up — and 
then,  when  I  left  him  for  a  minute,  he  did  it." 

"Yes,"  the  young  man  murmured,  "and  I  might  have 
helped  him,  and  I  didn't.  I  might  have  saved  him, 
and  I  didn't!" 

"Yes,  you  might."  The  girl  turned  to  look  out 
above  the  curtains  to  the  hurrying  street.  "O,  God, 
who  cares?  We  just  smashed  him — that's  all.  He 
was  kind  of  a  boy  and  foolish  over  me,  and  he  thought 
you  were  his  best  friend.  And  we  just  laughed  and 
smashed  him.  O,  God,  sometimes  I  want  to  quit  it 
all!" 

"Yes,"  he  retorted,  "let's  quit." 

He  stared  unseeing  at  her  as  she  rubbed  at  the  lace 
of  her  bodice  until  her  dreary  whisper  brought  him  to 
the  present.  "See  the  blood  on  us,"  she  said;  "just 
like  his  soul!" 

The  man  laid  his  arm  on  the  table  and  sank  his  face 
into  the  crook  of  the  elbow.  The  girl  sprang  up  and 
ran  to  him ;  with  her  arm  about  his  neck  she  drew  his 
head  back. 

"Now,  here,  Hammy,  you  mustn't.     You've  got  to 


212  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

brace — you've  got  to  go  down  the  street  and  see  all 
the  boys  and  sort-a  laugh !  Now,  here — here — "  and 
she  held  him  tight,  choking  a  desperate  sob  in  his  dry 
throat — "let's  wash  the  blood  off  your  collar — you've 
got  to  face  it  all — you'll  have  to  face  'em  all !  Here — " 
she  dipped  her  handkerchief  in  a  glass  and  rubbed  his 
collar  and  the  lapel  of  his  coat,  while  the  other  woman 
sat  watching  them  unheeded.  When  the  waiter 
brought  the  whisky,  the  man  and  girl  drank  it  swiftly, 
but  she  continued  to  clean  his  coat,  and  then  brushed 
the  hair  from  his  brow,  which  was  covered  with  tiny 
iridescences  of  sweat. 

"I'm  all  right,"  Arnold  said  presently.  "You  must 
go  home,  Nel."  He  turned  to  Miss  Wayne.  "We'll 
take  her  home,  won't  we?"  And  when  Nella  pro- 
tested, he  kept  repeating  mechanically,  "You  must  go 
home — you  must  go  home — I'll  get  a  cab  and  take  you 
home." 

After  he  had  gone  out,  the  girl  toyed  listlessly  with 
her  glass.  She  seemed  unconscious  of  the  other  wom- 
an's presence  for  a  while,  and  then  turned  suddenly  to 
her. 

"Help  him!"  she  muttered.  "You're  a  religious 
woman,  ain't  you  ?  I've  seen  you  on  the  avenue.  Ed- 
die's gone  and  we  killed  him.  Jack  Arnold  got  him 
to  the  track — and  I  just  laughed !" 

"He  cared  for  you?" 

The  girl  rubbed  her  rouged  cheek  restlessly.  "I 
wouldn't  let  him.  O,  you  know  so  little!  You  talk 
so  grand,  but  what  good's  that?  Here's  Hammy!" 
She  found  a  bitter  pleading,  "You  help  him  or  your 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  213 

damned  religion's  no  good.  Nothing's  good  that 
doesn't  help!" 

The  preacher  of  the  new  thought  sat  back  in  silence. 
The  girl  listened  to  Arnold's  footsteps  coming  back; 
she  muttered  again:  "Who  cares?  O,  God,  who 
cares?" 

He  looked  at  her,  and  mutely  helped  her  with  her 
wraps,  and  then  he  said,  in  a  sort  of  brother's  gentle- 
ness: "I  care,  Nel.  He  loved  you,  after  all,  and  I 
pulled  him  down.  And  you — you  were  fine — you  kept 
your  word." 

She  followed,  comforted  strangely,  to  get  into  the 
cab.  Grace  Wayne  went  with  them  and  watched  with 
a  sense  of  failure  the  man  begin  once  more  his  sooth- 
ings.  Nella  sat  as  in  a  dream  while  he  took  her  hands, 
saying:  "Now,  Kid,  don't  cry — don't  you  care — I've 
understood  it  all,  and  you've  been  fine.  Now,  don't 
you  cry!" 

But  on  these  words,  as  he  was  helping  her  from  the 
cab,  she  did  cry,  so  that  Miss  Wayne  saw  him  support- 
ing her  to  the  elevator,  and  heard  her  sobs  and  his  en- 
treaties. 

The  woman  sat  quietly  until  he  returned  and  got  in 
the  vehicle.  "I  didn't  want  to  say  anything,"  she  be- 
gan ;  "she'd  better  be  alone  and  cry  it  out.  She  won't 
kill  herself  ?— it  isn't  that  bad,  is  it?" 

"He  was  the  only  decent  fellow  she  ever  knew  in  her 
life— that's  all." 

"She  cared,"  retorted  the  woman,  "and  you  killed 
him.  Where  are  you  going?  The  girl  said  you  were 
a  friend  of  the  family.  You  ought  to  see  them — if  you 
can  say  anything  to  his  mother — anything — " 


214  THE   DAY   OF    SOULS 

"Yes."  She  saw  his  face  as  the  rays  from  a  corner 
light  fell  within  the  cab;  it  was  breaking  with  agony. 
"His  mother— and  Stella!" 

"You  must  go,  and  to-night.  You  can't  explain,  but 
you  can  do  something — you  can  just  say — "  she  broke 
off  despairingly — "well,  won't  you?" 

"I'll  go."  The  young  man  gave  some  directions  to 
the  driver,  and  then  turned  to  her:  "I'm  glad  you're 
along — you're  steeling  me  through.  You  see  when 
you're  once  in  the  net,  you're  fast,  and  then  you're 
always  netting  others." 

"Yes— what  about  the  soul  of  this  girl?" 

"What  have  I  to  do  with  her  soul?" 

"There  was  a  man  who  cared  for  her,  who  might 
have  saved  her  from  what  she'll  come  to  as  sure  as  the 
stars,  and  you  and  your  kind  simply  snuffed  him  out. 
She  told  me  enough  to  understand — you  crushed  the 
last  hope  she  had — and  you  ask  me  what  you  have  to 
do  with  her  soul !" 

"He  wouldn't  have  married  her,"  muttered  the  man, 
"he  couldn't!" 

"No  matter.  He  was  good  and  he  was  something  to 
her.  And  she  spent  her  grief  comforting  you — trying 
to  help  you — who'd  killed  him." 

The  young  man  twisted  from  his  companion  on  the 
cushions  and  looked  from  the  window.  "You're  get- 
ting me  in  fine  shape  to  see  that  old  mother,"  he  mut- 
tered, and  then  cried,  as  a  suppliant,  reaching  to  take 
her  hand  in  the  dark :  "Don't !— I'm  done  for !" 

The  cab  stopped  on  a  quiet  residence  street.  Arnold 
burst  from  it  as  though  escaping  torture.  He  glanced 
up;  a  light  was  in  the  upper  windows  of  the  house. 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  215 

He  looked  at  his  watch.  "His  mother  knows,  now — 
she  knows!"  But  he  ran  to  the  steps,  and  again  the 
woman  was  alone  in  the  cab,  this  time  for  half  an  hour, 
waiting  in  silence. 

When  the  young  man  returned,  a  neighbor  woman 
was  with  him;  after  a  moment  he  came  and  entered 
the  vehicle.  Grace  Wayne  did  not  question  him,  as 
the  cab  went  down-town,  but  he  seemed  to  catch  her 
glance  of  inquiry  when  they  passed  into  the  radiant 
streets,  for  he  turned  to  her. 

"She  kissed  me — his  mother,"  he  said.  "Nel  tried 
to  help  me — and  she  kissed  me!  What's  the  matter 
with  you  women?" 

"And  one  way  and  another,  you  crush  them.  I  think 
we'd  better  go  and  eat  something — you're  shaking — do 
you  know  that?"  She  caught  his  hand  and  held  it. 
"You're  trembling  from  head  to  foot."  Her  pulsing 
strength  seemed  to  quiet  the  blood  surging  through 
him.  "Here,  we'll  get  out.  You'd  better  have  some- 
thing." 

He  laughed  shortly  when  they  were  on  the  pave- 
ment before  the  entrance  of  a  cafe  on  Mason  Street. 
"No,  I  think  we'd  better  go  to  a  quiet  place — there's 
music  down  there — and  there's  blood  on  me." 

They  were  turning  back,  when  Louis  Ferreri  ran  out 
from  a  corner  cigar  stand.  He  gave  a  surprised  glance 
at  the  woman  by  Arnold's  side,  then  drew  him  to  the 
curb.  She  stopped  abruptly  where  she  could  hear 
what  was  said. 

"It's  awful  about  Eddie,"  cried  the  slot-machine 
man.  "It's  awful!  Have  you  seen  Stillman,  Ham? 
They're  looking  for  you — ain't  you  seen  anybody?" 


216  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

His  voice  lowered.  "I  guess  they  want  you  to  get 
a-hold  of  Weldy  and  stick  by  him ;  yes,  sir,  stick  right 
by  him,  until  that  committee  reports  in  the  legislature 
Friday.  There'll  be  an  awful  row  over  this  business — 
it's  the  twenty-ninth  track  suicide  this  year,  and 
Weldy's  all  in  the  air." 

"Where  is  he?" 

"I  dun-no.  Home?  Cri's  sake,  Ham,  you  got-a 
hold  him!  If  the  papers  flash  this  big,  it'll  make 
things  bad — you  got-a  get  next  to  Weldy  and  hold 
him!" 

Arnold  felt  confusedly  of  his  head.  "O,  let  me  be !" 
he  growled,  and  Louis  seized  his  arm. 

"Come  on,  I'll  go  out  with  you — you  got-a  get  him, 
and  stick  by  him  and  keep  these  damn  preachers  and 
women  from  him  till  that  committee  meets." 

"Now,  here,  Louis,  let  go  of  me !  Don't  stick  any- 
thing more  on  me  than  I've  got  now.  I'm  pulling  to- 
gether a  bit."  He  glanced  back  at  the  woman  by  the 
curb.  She  came  to  the  two  men  and  touched  Arnold's 
arm. 

"Come,"  she  said  calmly,  and  they  went  along  to 
one  of  the  many  little  oyster  houses  of  the  street.  But 
Arnold  ate  nothing;  the  wine  stung  his  brain  to  a 
fever,  and  he  wanted  to  get  again  to  the  street,  any- 
where, to  do  anything,  so  he  could  evade  the  silence. 
(Miss  Wayne  put  her  hand  on  his.  "Here,  you  mustn't 
drink  anything  more.  I  understood  something  of  what 
you  were  saying  about  this  race-track  business.  What 
are  you  going  to  do  ?" 

"I  don't  know — I  don't  care.  I've  dragged  a  friend 
down  and  killed  him,  and  that's  enough  to-night." 


THE   DAY   OF    SOULS  217 

"Yes,  and  you're  dragging  another  down  and  killing 
him,  aren't  you  ?" 

Arnold  stared  at  her  across  the  table.  "What  are 
you  saying?" 

"I've  read  the  papers  a  little — I've  a  certain  know- 
ledge of  you.  It  flashed  across  me  just  now  what  you 
stand  for,  what  your  whole  life  signifies — a  tool — a  go- 
between.  And  now  you're  trapping  another  man  to  his 
ruin.  And  you  are !" 

The  hard-faced  young  man  laughed  with  mordant 
humor.  "Yes,  you  see  it  exactly."  He  went  on  with 
reckless  effrontery,  defying  her  with  tone  and  gesture, 
leaning  to  her  across  the  table.  "Yes — I've  bought 
him.  I  can  swing  him,  crash  him  on  the  rocks,  break 
him  any  time.  I'm  glad  you  understand.  You've  in- 
terested me.  I've  stopped  to  listen  to  your  transcen- 
dental preachments,  your  fine  moralities,  and  I've  often 
thought  I'd  like  to  throw  you  face  to  face  with  life — 
the  computation  on  which  it's  based  down  here.  But 
you're  above  it  all — you — " 

"Be  still!"  she  answered.    "I've  suffered  too!" 

He  paused  an  instant.  "Yes — a  man  loved  you — 
and  he  died."  He  went  on  slowly:  "I've  wondered 
what  sort  he  was,  to  send  you  about  the  world  to  save 
souls — to  help  men  down  in  the  street.  And  you — you 
saw  something  far  different — a  beautiful,  mystical 
faith  of  sweetness  and  light.  And  it  wasn't  what  he 
meant.  He'd  say  you  failed." 

"Hush !"  she  went  on  steadily.  "You've  no  right  to 
say  this.  I've  known  two  men — he,  the  purest  soul 
that  ever  man  was,  and  you,  the  worst.  And  you — 
you're  strangely  like  him.  I  can  not  grasp  it,  but  it's 


2i8  THE   DAY   OF    SOULS 

so.  Beneath  it  all — "  she  went  on,  steadfastly  watch- 
ing him, — "your  evil,  I've  seen  his  face,  his  ways,  his — 
greatness.  It  is  as  though  he  had  come  to  me  again 
in  you." 

He  sat  back,  stirred  for  a  moment  from  his  trouble. 
Then  he  looked  at  her  in  his  old  ironic  doubt.  She 
had  been  the  actress,  the  dramatic  figure  of  a  sort  of 
spiritual  adventure,  thrilling  men  with  her  voice,  her 
lofty  face — but  the  homeless,  the  fallen,  the  shamblers 
— what  was  her  mystic  faith  to  them  ? 

"He  told  you  to  go  help  them,"  Arnold  muttered,  "to 
go  tell  men  of  his  Christ.  But  the  God  he  knew  was 
a  fighting  God  down  in  the  London  slums;  if  that 
man's  soul  is  watching  you,  it  will  say  you've  failed." 

A  recriminating  color  touched  her  face.  "It's  hard 
to  talk  to  you.  It  seems  that  out  of  dreams  and  re- 
membrances, that  I'd  known  you."  Then,  with  a  cry, 
she  rose  before  him :  "O,  leave  it  all !  This  is  why  it 
seems  I'd  been  fighting  for  you — my  faith  in  you !" 

He  stared  at  her,  heard  her  voice  come  low,  vibrant 
with  feeling,  her  womanhood  disengaged  him  from  his 
uncaring  world,  a  tenderness  like  the  after-lure  of  a 
splendid  light ;  she  had  broken  the  gates  of  his  ruthless 
life.  "There's  a  way !"  she  pleaded.  "O,  a  way— and 
you  shall  come !" 

"The  way,"  he  muttered,  and  felt  her  hand  tighten 
on  his  wrist.  "No,  I'm  done  for." 

"You're  just  beginning,"  she  answered,  and  a  power 
beyond  him  confused  his  senses  with  inordinate  hope. 
And  in  this  dream  he  heard  her  laugh,  a  sure,  glad 
triumph  above  the  shuffle  of  the  street,  the  witless 
mirth  of  the  money-spenders  about  them  in  the  cafe. 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  219 

She  touched  his  arm  again.  "Come,"  she  added; 
"you  must  see  me  to  the  hotel.  It's  very  late." 

Still  under  the  spell  of  her  strength  he  went  with 
her  along  the  streets,  and  presently  he  cried:  "Ah, 
well,  it's  the  end.  Eddie's  dead,  and  it's  the  end  for 
me."  He  turned  his  worried  eyes  on  her.  "I'll  go," 
he  muttered.  "I  want  to  be  alone — the  hills."  For  the 
stillness  of  the  North,  the  peace  of  the  high  and  secret 
places  rose ;  his  memory  went  back  to  the  years  before 
the  city  had  dishonored  him. 

"Yes,  go,"  Grace  answered.  "I  want  you  to.  For 
your  redemption — and  for  my  own.  I  know  you — 
you're  proving  yourself.  I  told  you  nothing  of  all  this 
you've  lived  was  your  real  'self.  I  believed  in  you." 

He  looked  at  her  steadfast  frankness ;  he  had  put  by 
for  a  moment  her  esoteric  aspect ;  he  was  silent  before 
the  largeness  of  her  will,  her  unfearing,  her  human 
sweetness,  wondering  if  from  her  faith  these  came. 
But  his  old  worries  trooped  back ;  brought,  it  appeared, 
by  voices  from  the  vestibule  of  the  fashionable  apart- 
ment house.  A  carriage  was  turning  at  the  curb,  the 
light  flirting  on  the  wheels  and  harness. 

"You  can't  quite  know,"  he  retorted  dully. 

Miss  Wayne  turned  to  watch  the  people  coming 
from  the  Albemarle.  The  men  were  in  top  hats  and  long 
coats,  showing,  now  and  then,  a  pearly  glint  of  even- 
ing attire;  the  women  muffled  elegantly,  giving  forth 
evanescent  suggestions  of  exquisite  gowning. 

The  party  was  quite  past  the  doorway  when  one  of 
the  young  men  turned  and  then  cried  loudly.  "Why, 
Jack !  Great — "  he  recovered  himself,  smiled  broadly 
and  put  out  his  hand. 


220  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

"How  are  you,  Watt?"  answered  Arnold  quietly; 
"how  are  you  ?" 

"Jack,  haven't  seen  you  for  days!"  Exuberance 
and  puzzled  inquiry  were  in  Watt  Chatom's  tone.  He 
glanced  at  his  sister,  who  was  with  a  black-bearded 
man,  evidently  embarrassed  at  Grace  Wayne's  presence 
with  his  friend. 

Miss  Chatom  smiled  in  some  astonishment,  nodding 
to  Arnold,  and  Watt  went  on:  "Why,  I'm  mighty 
glad  to  see  you,  Jack.  Say,  we  won  the  Narcissus — a 
little  mare  I  had  named  for  Edith.  She  gave  me  a 
glove  that  we  tied  under  the  bridle-band,  and  Mogan 
rode  to  a  killing  finish !" 

"Yes?"  Arnold's  voice  had  its  old  friendliness. 
After  her  nod  and  her  surprised  glance  at  Grace 
Wayne,  Miss  Chatom  came  no  nearer,  but  at  Watt's 
words  she  turned  with  a  deprecating  laugh,  as  she 
bent  to  enter  the  carriage.  And  then,  looking  at  Ar- 
nold, her  eyes  dilated,  staring  at  the  blood  on  him. 
The  horses  turned,  but  the  man  and  the  woman  at  the 
door  still  saw  Edith  Chatom's  terrified  eyes  on  them 
from  the  carriage  gloom. 

"Friends?"  Miss  Wayne  queried.  "Edith  M  was 
the  winner,  was  she  ?" 

"Yes,"  he  retorted,  "and  Eddie's  dead  at  the  morgue. 
Ah,  you  can't  know  what's  behind  it  all.  He  was  my 
friend — he'd  never  have  gambled  in  all  his  life  if  I 
hadn't  led  him  on.  Always,  I've  been  helping  smash 
some  fellow  down.  Yes,  that's  it !  I'm  sick  with  it." 

"You  shall  go,"  she  answered.  "Nothing  can  matter 
now — nothing  harm  you  nor  lessen  you.  I  believe  in 
you.  You  are  a  part  of  my  own  soul's  good." 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  221 

He  evaded  her  nervously,  unstrung  again  by  his  re- 
calling. "I'm  drifting  fast  somewhere — God  knows 
where!  I  threw  up  my  hands  four  months  ago  and 
let  things  drift.  I  think  I'll  kill  myself— it's  best." 

The  light  of  her  eyes  was  serene.  "No,  you'll  live," 
she  whispered,  and  she  saw  the  pathos  in  his  clinging 
to  her,  recounting  his  defeats,  he  who  had  been  the 
jester  an  hour  ago. 

"I  suppose  you  mean  to  turn  on  them,"  he  muttered, 
"to  try  and  free  myself — to  fight  back.  But  I  can't — 
there  are  big  men  around  this  town  who  could  have 
me  sent  to  the  pen  on  a  dozen  counts  just  by  crooking 
their  fingers.  They  can  railroad  me  and  I'd  have  no 
show.  You  can't  fight  money  and  pull,  even  when 
you're  clean-handed,  and  I — well,  God  knows,  what 
show  would  I  have  in  court  if  it  was  seen  that  I  was 
fighting  the  big  men  higher  up?  It's  no  matter  of 
souls  and  women — what  can  you  know  ?" 

"You  shall  be  free  and  you  shall  not  fail,"  she  an- 
swered, and  he  went  away  with  the  memory  of  her 
high,  untroubled  smile.  A  block  down  the  street  he 
sat  on  the  curb  and  rolled  a  cigarette  with  nervous 
fingers. 

"What  does  she  mean?"  he  said.  "She  believes  in 
me — she  cares.  She — "  he  broke  off,  his  hungry  eyes 
staring  back  at  the  house  lights.  "You'd  think  she 
loved  me  to  trust  that  way — trust  me!"  He  rose 
wearily.  "Well,  I'm  done  for — but  it  seems  always 
some  woman's  trusting." 

Grace  Wayne  sat  long  by  her  window,  watching  the 
swinging  city  lights.  She  had  been  alone,  complete  in 


222  THE   DAY   OF    SOULS 

her  spiritual  sufficiency,  but  here  another  conscious- 
ness, blind  with  hates  and  errors,  brutal  with  common 
wrongs  and  humors,  had  broken  a  way  to  some  inner 
conviction  that  startled  her.  She  had  moved  calmly 
on  her  extraordinary  pilgrimage,  conscious  in  a  his- 
trionic vanity  of  its  quality,  preaching  her  Nirvanic 
Christ,  a  cosmic  race-lover,  impersonal,  orientalized — 
but  here  was  the  brawling  Street  that  lied  and  hun- 
gered and  would  have  none  of  it ;  here  a  soul  had  come, 
bitter  and  adrift,  to  challenge  her  mystic  Jesus.  From 
the  common  lot,  in  the  faint,  cool  light  of  a  cathedral 
retreat  she  had  stood  face  to  face  with  this  mystic 
teacher ;  but  now  a  vision  came  to  her,  not  of  a  Divin- 
ity, but  of  a  Man  of  Sorrows  wandering  along  dusty 
roadsides,  obscure,  reviled  in  the  market  places;  He 
sweat  in  dirty  clothing;  He  suffered  blows  and  cried 
out ;  He  doubted  in  His  agony — perhaps  He  sinned,  the 
human,  striving  always  to  make  clear  His  divinity — 
was  this  the  God  men  wished  ? 

By  her  window,  looking  down  on  the  street,  the 
modern  mystic  saw  nothing  wrong  in  her  spiritual  con- 
structions, or  their  outward  expression.  But  she  had 
a  vision  of  herself,  alone,  a  splendid  figure  under  the 
flare  of  a  great  light  above  a  sea  of  faces  telling  the 
new  message,  and  in  vain.  Only,  nearer,  from  the  un- 
believing faces,  one  figure  stood,  a  man  broken  by  de- 
feats along  the  roadside;  he  called  her  in  his  need, 
and  it  seemed  that  through  him  she  might  come  closer 
and  be  understood  by  his  lying  and  hungered  fellows, 
by  the  world  from  which  she  dwelt  apart. 


CHAPTER   XIV 

On  her  way  through  the  halls  of  the  Albemarle  the 
next  morning  a  card  was  given  Miss  Wayne.  She 
went  to  the  reception-room  and  there  met  Edith 
Chatom.  The  other  woman  rose  with  a  direct  and 
composed  introduction. 

"I  have  seen  you  before — often,"  she  added.  "I 
know  who  you  are.  But  last  night  you  were  with 
John  Arnold — he  was  ghastly,  spattered  with  blood. 
You  see  he  used  to  be  a — an  acquaintance;  we  have 
never  lost  our  interest  in  him.  What  was  the  matter  ? 
Tell  me." 

"A  suicide — his  friend." 

Miss  Wayne's  voice  was  not  inviting.  The  two 
women  faced  each  other,  tall,  direct,  with  potent  life, 
measuring  each  the  other's  strength.  They  had  each 
the  clean  and  leisured  culture  of  the  world,  yet  were 
sharply  differentiated.  Edith  Chatom  felt  at  once  the 
need  of  a  defense  against  the  other's  resolution,  her 
aloof  personality,  her  un  fear  ing. 

"The  affair  was  in  the  morning  papers — though  not 
all  the  truth.  The  boy  shot  himself  after  losing  every 
dollar  on  the  races.  I  believe  he  had  used  some  of  his 
employer's  money." 

"Mr.  Arnold  was  with  him?" 

"Immediately  after.  He  was  responsible  in  a  way — 
he'd  led  the  man  on.  You  are  Miss  Chatom?  I  be- 

223 


224  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

lieve  you  owned  the  horse  against  which  young  Led- 
yard  bet,  didn't  you  ?" 

"My  brother  did.  It's  awfully  hard,  but  these  things 
do  happen." 

"You  are  largely  responsible — you  and  your  sort  of 
people — " 

"That  is  uncalled  for."  Edith  Chatom  flushed  and 
checked  her  retort.  "But  Mr.  Arnold — may  I  ask  of 
him  ?  What  he — how  he  feels  himself  involved  ?" 

"I  am  going  to  see  him.  If  you  are  his  friend,  .you 
might  come." 

"Thank  you.    He  might  understand,  perhaps." 

The  two  women  went  out  arid  over  the  hill  in  the 
sunny  morning.  There  was  little  speech  on  the  way  to 
the  Family  Liquor  Store.  Grace  Wayne  went  up  the 
outside  balcony  stairs  and  the  other  followed,  after  a 
glance  at  the  little  alley,  the  decayed  board  fence,  the 
heavy  German  with  the  Bismarckian  mustaches,  in 
apron  and  shirt  sleeves,  who  was  sweeping  at  the  side 
door  of  his  saloon. 

No  response  came  to  Miss  Wayne's  knock.  They 
went  through  the  upper  hall  and  to  the  kitchen. 

Miss  Cranberry  was  doing  her  morning  dishes. 
Nella  Free,  her  skirt  drawn  up  to  avoid  the  splashes 
and  the  floor,  the  underskirt  standing  out  in  a  fluff  of 
iridescent  pleats  about  the  chair,  sat  near.  The  girl's 
veil  was  tied  tightly  about  her  brow  above  her  blue 
eyes,  which  were  cast  lighter  from  the  heavy  rings  be- 
low them ;  her  pale  cheeks  showed  freckles ;  her  lips 
were  drawn.  She  regarded  the  visitors  indifferently, 
returning  her  gaze  to  the  child  in  overalls,  which  was 
crawling  about  the  floor.  In  its  clutch  was  a  toy  en- 


THE   DAY   OF    SOULS  225 

gine,  the  placating  gift  which  Nella  always  brought  as 
a  pretext  for  a  visit  to  Miss  Granny's. 

The  little  old  woman  was  shrill  with  astonishment 
at  the  presence  of  the  two  women  in  the  kitchen  door. 
She  wrung  her  red  hands  from  the  suds,  wiped  them 
on  her  apron,  scolded  the  clucking  parrot,  and  came 
to  greet  them  with  a  timorous  courtesy. 

"Yes,  yes — "  she  answered;  "but  Mr.  Hammy  isn't 
here.  He's  been  here  so  little  the  past  month,  only  us- 
ing his  rooms  once  or  twice.  And  now  there's  trouble, 
trouble." 

"Do  you  know  where  he  is,  Nella  ?" 

The  girl  started  as  her  name  came  from  Miss 
Wayne's  lips ;  she  moodily  shook  her  head  and  rubbed 
her  high  French  heel  against  a  crack  of  the  floor.  "I 
expect  he's  at  Eddie's  mother's.  The  papers  wrote 
some  fierce  stuff  about  me  and  Eddie.  They  said  he 
loved  me  and  I  dragged  him  down.  Hammy's  trying 
to  explain." 

"Trust  Hammy — trust  Hammy,"  murmured  the  lit- 
tle old  woman,  rubbing  her  thin  hands.  "O,  it's  bad, 
but  he'll  do  what  he  can !" 

Miss  diatom  looked  from  her  to  the  girl;  then  at 
the  parrot  in  the  window,  whisking  crumbs  down  on 
the  ragged  little  hyacinth  bulb  which  struggled  through 
the  damp  earth  in  its  pot  by  the  window  opening  on  the 
air  shaft;  and  at  the  yellow-haired  child  with  its  red 
engine,  a  spot  of  color  in  the  mean  obscurity. 

"How  did  you  sleep,  Nella?"  asked  Grace  Wayne. 
It  seemed  that  she,  with  the  other  perfectly  gowned 
woman  in  the  doorway,  was  held  aloof  from  some 
tragedy  at  Cranberry's.  "Did  you  sleep  ?" 


226  THE  DAY   OF   SOULS 

"Pretty  bad."  Nella  caught  the  child's  hand  and 
dragged  it  into  the  hall.  "I  don't  want  to  talk!"  she 
retorted.  "Babe,  let's  go  see  Unc'  Pop." 

The  two  women  watched  her  defiant  flirt  through  the 
hall.  By  the  stairs  she  met  the  Captain.  The  old  man 
straightened  up,  grasping  his  cane,  peering  cautiously 
through  the  gloom,  twisting  his  stained  imperial. 
When  he  saw  he  had  encountered  a  woman  he  bowed 
grandly  and  stepped  back  for  her  precedence. 

"Good  morning,  Madam — good  morning!"  he  said, 
but  he  waited  until  she  and  the  child  had  gone  out. 
The  Captain  distrusted  women,  their  chatter,  their 
lightness — they  couldn't  understand;  but  then  one 
could  have  for  them  the  manner  of  the  old  South. 

"Hush,"  said  Miss  Cranberry,  "don't  ever  let  him 
know  of  things — he's  been  a  soldier,  and  it's  all  fine. 
Mr.  Hammy's  paid  most  everything  for  the  Captain 
since  Larry  went  away." 

"Paid?"  echoed  Miss  Chatom— "O,  I  see— for  his 
lodging." 

The  old  lady  screwed  her  mouth  to  discretion.  "And 
you  should  see  how  grand  they  salute  each  other  when 
they  meet !  It's  just  a  play !  But  it's  wearing  on  the 
Captain — he's  waited  so  long  for  the  troops  to  come 
back.  He  pretends  to  us,  he  doesn't  care !" 

"I'll  leave  this  note  for  Mr.  Arnold,"  said  Miss 
Wayne.  "I  wish  to  see  him.  But  we  must  go."  She 
glanced  at  Edith  Chatom. 

The  old  woman  saw  them  courteously  to  the  door. 
When  they  had  gone,  she  flew  to  Nella,  consumed  with 
curiosity  about  these  elegant  women.  The  departing 
visitors  saw  the  girl,  the  child,  Miss  Cranberry  with 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  227 

her  apron  over  her  head  to  keep  off  the  sun,  and  the 
red  engine  a  patch  of  color  on  the  balcony  against  the 
gray  wall  of  the  Family  Liquor  Store. 

"And  that's  where  he's  lived!"  murmured  Miss 
Chatom.  "It's  queer." 

"I  think  they  all  rather  depend  on  him,"  answered 
Grace  Wayne.  "The  girl's  nothing  to  him,"  she  added, 
"but  the  old  woman  couldn't  keep  her  house  if  he 
didn't  lodge  here.  And  the  old  soldier — well,  Mr. 
Arnold  is  a  strange  blunderer,  isn't  he  ?" 

They  looked  at  each  other  with  more  friendliness. 
Miss  Chatom  held  forth  her  hand  as  they  parted. 
"You  showed  me  a  curious  light  on  myself — and  on 
him.  He  was  my  childhood's  friend.  Will  you  let  me 
know  how  things  come  out  ?  I  shall  call  on  you." 

"Perhaps  we  can  do  something,"  said  the  other. 

The  day  seemed  rather  empty  to  Grace  Wayne  after 
the  return  from  Cranberry's.  She  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  read  and  walk  in  the  afternoons,  but  now  she 
thought  of  this  house  of  hazards,  of  the  Captain  bow- 
ing with  old-fashioned  chivalry,  the  little  old  woman 
wringing  her  hands  from  the  suds  to  fetch  a  chair, 
Nella  Free  kneeling  to  clean  the  mouth  of  the  waif. 
From  the  tawdry  run  of  the  day's  life,  lacking  hope, 
uplift,  light  from  a  bright  and  finely  ordained  world 
they  never  knew,  they  yet  found  for  one  another  the 
ineffable  human  radiation  of  whatever  courage,  gaiety 
or  good  each  had.  Spiritual  transcendencies  might  be, 
but  here  in  the  surge  of  denying  and  common  life  the 
priestess  of  a  mystic  modernity  wondered  at  this  char- 
ity— her  hands  had  been  unsoiled  with  it  all ;  she  had 
been  concerned  with  the  infinite  that  needs  no  concern. 


228  THE  DAY   OF   SOULS 

Arnold  came  to  her  apartments  late  in  the  day. 
They  were  both  a  trifle  self-conscious  after  the  half- 
illumination  of  that  first  contact  in  the  night.  But  he 
was  dragged  and  tired  after  a  day  with  his  dead 
friend's  affairs. 

"I  was  at  the  house,"  he  said.  "It  was  pretty  hard 
to  be  treated  as  if  I  were  his  best  friend,  instead  of 
his  destroyer.  Well,  his  mother  took  it  that  way.  He 
was  short  in  his  accounts  with  his  firm,  but  she'll  never 
know.  We  covered  it — eight  hundred  dollars.  Eddie 
killed  himself  over  eight  hundred  dropped  to  the  book- 
makers!" 

"Who  replaced  it?" 

"We  did." 

"You  mean  you  did." 

"Well,"  he  smiled,  "I  won  more  than  that  on  the 
race.  And  the  boys  down  the  line  are  paying  the 
funeral  expenses — it's  all  we  could  do.  But  his  sis- 
ter'll  have  to  go  to  work  now.  Eddie  was  their  only 
guard.  Now  they're  against  the  game  raw — Stella 
and  her  little  mother."  He  was  still,  and  then  laughed 
briefly.  "My  God,  you  make  me  smile — you  and  all 
these  nice,  clean,  respectable  people  who  never  went 
wrong  in  all  your  nice,  clean,  respectable  little  lives. 
You  talk  of  souls !  O,  how  easy  it  is !" 

"Be  still,"  she  answered  calmly.  "You  must  not 
give  way  to  this." 

But  he  rose  to  walk  nervously  the  length  of  the 
room,  fretting  against  the  bond  she  wove  about  him. 
His  corroding  mood  broke  forth :  "Tell  me,  O,  Priest- 
ess!" he  mocked.  "Give  us  the  perfect  way — give  us 
the  light  down  here  where  it's  raw  and  red." 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  229 

"You're  breaking  fast."  She,  too,  rose  and  came 
before  him,  and  then  cried,  with  a  brilliant  eagerness, 
leaning  to  him:  "Some  men  can  live  by  half-truths 
and  compromises,  but  you  can't.  You've  tried  and 
failed — you're  not  even  a  capable  crook.  O,  you  can't ! 
You're  rising  through  it  all !" 

Her  dominance  stilled  him.  In  the  doggerel  wit  of 
the  cafes  he  could  mock  and  confuse  and  forget,  but 
in  this  silent  room  he  had  to  face  clear  issues.  "Ah, 
well,"  he  muttered,  "you  don't  know.  I've  tried  to  get 
my  father  out  of  San  Quentin.  I  tried  all  ways,  fair 
and  foul — and  sometimes  I've  tried  to  keep  straight. 
You  can't  know  how  everything  can  be  lined  up 
against  a  man — money,  social  forces,  class  hate,  the 
law.  When  once  you're  down  everything  is  focused 
to  break  you  and  keep  you  there.  I  know  I'm  a  tool, 
but  I  paid  a  price  to  win — and  lost." 

"I  know,"  she  came  to  him,  her  gaze  direct  and 
level  with  his  own.  "It's  well  to  lose  that  way. 

"  '    .    .    .    Like  the  man  who  hath  mightily  won 
God  out  of  knowledge,  peace  out  of  infinite  pain, 
Light  out  of  darkness  and  purity  out  of  a  stain/  " 

"Lanier?"  He  smiled  grimly.  "I  used  to  know 
that.  I  used  to  read — I'm  not  all  the  rounder." 

"In  your  rooms  once  I  noticed  Maeterlinck  and 
Stevenson's  Child  Verses,"  she  went  on.  "I  wondered 
what  sort  of  man  was  beneath  it  all.  John  Arnold,  it 
seems  that  I  have  waited." 

"Waited?"  his  voice  echoed,  with  some  surprise. 

"For  you,"  she  went  on  calmly.     "I  was  at  your 


230  THE  DAY   OF   SOULS 

place  this  morning.  I  saw  them  all  there — the  old 
woman,  Nella  and  the  child.  It  seems  as  if  I  saw 
something  that  I  had  never  dreamed  of.  Perhaps — " 
she  hesitated.  "You're  teaching  me  much — that  there's 
a  world's  work  to  do  different  from  all  I've  thought." 

"The  world's  work  seems  to  be  done  by  people  with 
aching  heads  and  sore  hearts  and  bloody  hands,"  he 
muttered.  "Yes,  and  you're  above  all  that — so  far, 
so  high." 

And  then  he  left  her  abruptly,  as  if  sick  with  some 
resurgence. 

She  stood  long  alone,  calm ;  though  out  of  the  serene 
seas  of  her  life  a  storm  was  beating,  a  confusing  com- 
plex from  her  womanhood,  from  her  soul.  What 
blind  faith  brought  this  lawless  spirit  to  her  own? 
Was  it  love  linking  his  unworth  with  her  complete- 
ness— love,  stained,  bloody,  common  with  the  world's 
use,  but  now  crowned  above  the  life  of  the  spirit  ? 


CHAPTER  XV 

Sammy  Jarbo,  the  laundry  wagon  poet,  had  ever 
been  beset  by  two  ambitions  embarrassing  enough  to 
dwell  with  on  nine  dollars  a  week.  One  was  to  write 
a  poem  as  long  as  The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes,  and  the 
other  was  to  own  a  top  hat.  The  hat  must  be  size 
seven  and  an  eighth,  and  the  poem  one  that  should 
clear  his  turgid,  subconscious  harmonies  to  acute,  visi- 
ble form  of  beauty.  Always  the  poet  lived  alert  for 
his  inspiration — some  day  it  must  come,  fecundating 
his  mind  until  he  was  heroic  with  poignant  utter- 
ances; it  might  be  while  he  was  on  his  wagon,  or 
dining  at  Sedaini's,  or  idling  with  his  sweetheart  on 
the  beach,  or  alone  in  his  hall  bedroom  at  Granny's, 
staring  at  the  scrimply  wall-paper  over  his  head — 
some  day  the  divine  afflatus  should  sweep  his  soul,  the 
dreamed  ecstasy,  and  after  that  nothing  would  matter 
much,  even  though  he  still  had  but  nine  dollars  a  week 
and  could  not,  therefore,  marry  Mary  Mellody. 

In  his  spare  hours  the  poet  would  tramp  over  the 
hills  to  the  public  library  in  the  city  hall,  where, 
absorbed  in  rapid  and  omnivorous  readings,  making 
copious  notes,  scowling  over  his  pencil  chewing, 
rumpling  his  red  hair — an  eruption  of  sighs  and  mut- 
terings  behind  the  rampart  of  huge  volumes  he  got 
about  him — he  searched  and  awaited  his  divinity. 

The  public  library  of  Old  San  Francisco  was  a  cold 
231 


232  THE   DAY   OF    SOULS 

place;  the  reading-room  close  under  the  eaves,  near 
the  top  of  high  arched  windows,  through  which  the 
sea  fogs  streamed,  was  sodden  with  damp,  and  the 
trade  winds  scuffed  the  cornices.  All  day,  beneath 
the  staring  gas,  one  sat  and  shivered — it  was  a  moving 
tale  that  warmed  you  there;  and  yet  on  the  shelves 
were  meat,  drink,  kind  hearts  and  a  forgetting,  and 
one  could  write  wittily  of  millions  on  the  hungriest 
day.  There,  with  his  collar  upturned  to  his  freckled 
ears,  the  poet  gorged. 

Sammy  turned  down  from  the  promenade  of  the 
city  hall  one  evening  at  six  o'clock  and  met  John 
Arnold  outside  the  office  of  registry  watching  the 
fleeced  air  dim  the  street  lamps.  Sammy  looked  at 
his  friend  with  some  hesitation ;  they  had  had  little  to 
do  with  each  other  of  late.  The  fine  old  days  were 
done ;  the  student  nights  when  they  had  argued  verses 
with  a  jug  of  wine  at  Sedaini's,  or  wrangled  politics 
with  Fred  Weldy,  the  job  printer,  over  a  mug  of  beer 
at  Unc'  Pop's  back  bar,  or  loitered  in  week-long  idle- 
ness about  the  town.  Arnold  had  now  gone  far  in 
the  blaze  of  its  life,  but  Sammy  remembered  the  broth- 
erhood; his  friend  looked  forlorn  under  the  mist- 
filmed  gas  lamp,  the  bleak,  twilight  gray. 

"Hello,  Ham,"  said  the  poet. 

"How  are  you,  Sammy?"  answered  the  other. 

Coming  nearer,  Sammy  saw  a  smile  in  his  friend's 
eyes,  a  gentleness  he  had  not  seen  for  months,  but 
which  was  like  him  in  the  old  days. 

"Where  are  you  going  to  eat?"  continued  the  poet. 
"It's  a  fifteen  center  with  me." 

"That's  about  my  limit  to-night — come  on."     The 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  233 

friends  went  across  Market  Street  to  a  low-roofed 
saloon,  where,  for  ten  cents,  you  got  the  wieners  and 
rye  bread,  the  frijoles  and  the  beer. 

"What's  the  matter  ?"  queried  Jarbo,  still  in  wonder. 
"You  ain't  broke,  are  you,  Ham?" 

"Not  quite.  I  just  wanted  to  get  away  with  some- 
body I  used  to  know  in  the  old  days  when  we  were 
all  free  and  could  laugh  together  at  anything.  I 
wanted  you,  Sammy,  you  damned  simple-hearted  fool ! 
I've  been  wandering  around  to-day  in  a  sort  of 
dream,  in  and  out  of  all  the  old  places  and  familiar 
streets — saying,  'good-by/  " 

The  other  stirred  and  looked  up. 

"Good-by?    You're  going  to  leave?    Where  to?" 

"I  don't  know,  and  it  doesn't  matter.  I'm  going  to 
quit  the  town— that's  all." 

Sammy  marveled  at  the  quietness  of  the  other's 
mood.  He  was,  indeed,  neither  loftily  fortified  with 
liquor  nor  merely  impersonal  with  cynic  coolness,  as 
he  had  been  at  times.  This  was  a  new  reserve. 
Sammy  studied  him  for  an  uncertain  period. 

"Well,  I'm  glad,"  he  said,  at  length.  "I  don't  know 
why,  but  I'm  glad.  Maybe  you've  come  to  the  end  of 
things.  There  was  Eddie — " 

"Yes." 

"Is  that  it?" 

"Part  of  it.  And  something  grips  me  that  I  don't 
understand.  Only  I'm  going." 

"Where?" 

"I  told  you  I  didn't  know.  I'll  store  my  stuff,  or 
sell  it,  or  give  it  away — all  the  things  in  the  rooms  at 
Granny's  except  my  army  stuff  and  some  pictures.  I 


234  THE   DAY   OF    SOULS 

spent  the  afternoon  packing  some  of  them — some  of 
my  mother's  things." 

"Packing?"  Sammy  leaned  to  him  in  surprise. 
"You  ain't  going  right  away?" 

"Yes.  There's  no  compromise  for  me,  Sammy.  I 
couldn't  live  in  San  Francisco  and  be  straight  any 
more  than  you  could  live  in  hell  and  be  crooked.  It's 
just  in  us — that's  all.  I'm  going  to-morrow." 

"To-morrow !" 

"Yes.  The  town  would  break  me  if  I  stayed  now — 
if  I  quit  the  game  and  tried  to  live  differently.  I'd 
be  the  wounded  wolf  and  the  pack  would  jump  me. 
I'll  have  to  go." 

Sammy  sat  irresolutely  back.  He  never  could 
understand — the  rattle-brained  fool — never! 

"I  guess  you're  right,"  he  muttered  doubtfully; 
"only  there's  Granny  and  the  Polacchi  kids  and — " 

"We  sent  them  out  to  Scifoni's — Louis  and  I. 
Pietro's  going  to  keep  Theresa  in  school,  and  Angelo 
will  help  in  the  flowers — it's  better  for  the  kids  than 
Chinatown.  And  Granny — well,  I'm  going  to  find  a 
lodger  to  take  my  old  rooms." 

The  poet  was  silent  a  long  time,  watching  Arnold's 
dark  face,  the  mobile  mouth,  with  its  nervous  play  of 
weakness  and  humor  and  reserve — the  bar-room 
jester,  the  wit  of  the  tenderloin,  who  had  never,  even 
there,  seemed  to  fit. 

"Leaving  San  Francisco!"  the  poet  mused.  "You? 
Why,  somehow  it  seems  the  soul  of  the  town's  in  you. 
O,  San  Francisco !  All  that  it  could  mean !" 

"There're  great  things  to  do,  maybe,  but  they're  not 
for  me.  I'm  going  to  the  hills.  I  punched  cows  up 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  235 

on  the  Hyampoom  once  for  fun — now  I'll  do  it  for 
something  else.  I'm  going  to  fight  my  way  back. 
Sammy,  I'll  tell  you  something  I  never  told  a  man  in 
all  the  world — I'm  sorry." 

"Yes,"  his  friend  murmured;  "I  thought  the  day 
would  come.  And  I  think  that  girl  started  it.  You've 
never  been  the  same,  try  as  you  might." 

"Maybe."  Arnold  smiled  sadly  at  him.  "I  suppose 
every  fellow  thinks  that  women  could  keep  a  man  to 
the  best  in  him  if  they  tried — but  most  of  them  never 
tried  with  me.  I  was  good  to  laugh  with  and  at  when 
the  lights  shone  bright,  but  when  the  dark  days  came 
— well,  a  good  many  times  I  thought  I  loved  them, 
but  when  the  dark  days  came  I  saw  how  it  was.  Once, 
long  ago,  I  thought  I  cared,  and  I  tried  to  live  decently 
for  a  woman,  and  then  when  the  game  got  me  at  last 
I  went  to  her  for  help — just  a  cheery  word  to  help  a 
fellow  through.  It  was  Christmas,  and  I  traveled 
five  hundred  miles  to  see  her  and  broke  the  last  dollar 
I  had  in  the  world  to  buy  her  a  single  rose.  I  thought 
it  would  mean  something,  but  she  took  it  and  held  it 
up  against  the  furs  and  the  amethysts  and  the  pearls 
that  others  had  given  her,  and  smiled — the  same  smile 
I  once  saw  on  the  face  of  a  Mexican  dance-hall  girl 
when  they  told  her  that  a  man  she  wanted  to  get  rid 
of  had  killed  himself.  Eh,  do  you  understand  ?  Well, 
I  just  turned  away.  For  a  good  many  years  after  that 
I  could  afford  to  laugh  at  them,  and  drink  with  them 
and  forget  them.  Seems  like  I'd  given  much  and  got 
back  little.  Now — something's  different.  I  can't  tell 
you,  but  there's  some  big  hope  ahead — it  dazes  me  to 
know — to  feel — "  He  stopped,  and  after  his  thought, 


236  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

in  a  quiet  voice,  resumed:  "Well,  how's  Sweet  Mel- 
lody  and  the  old  crowd  over  the  hill  ?" 

"Things  are  pretty  quiet.  Mary's  not  well.  Ten 
hours  a  day  at  Solinsky's  is  pretty  tough.  I've  been 
thinking  of  what  you  said,  Hammy ;  sure  I  have." 

"Eh?"  said  the  forgetful  one;  "what's  that?" 

"O,  nothing  much.  Only  if  I  ever  get  Pizarro's 
Quest  done  and  fix  up  that  thing  about  Spring  in 
Arcady,  I'd  be  thinking  about  it." 

"About  what?" 

"O,  sort  of  getting  married.    But  here's  Pizarro — " 

"Pizarro  be  damned !  You  get  married.  What  are 
you  earning — fifteen  a  week?" 

"Nine,"  answered  the  poet  dismally.  "And,  besides, 
if  I  get  married,  it's  all  off  with  the  big  stuff.,  I  might 
kick  out  a  love  sonnet  now  and  then,  but  it  wouldn't 
be  the  big  stuff." 

"Look  here.  Mary  Mellody  loves  you,  son.  Now, 
if  I  was  straight  and  a  straight  girl  loved  me,  I'd  back 
Pizarro  and  Arcady  off  the  map." 

"You'd  be  a  rum  poet,"  murmured  the  other,  and 
then  he  sighed.  "Ah,  well,  I  wonder  if  love  is  the  big 
stuff?" 

"Have  you  asked  her?" 

"Not  explicitly — you  see — " 

"Come  on ;  we'll  ask  her  now !" 

"Now !"  gasped  the  poet. 

"You  can  be  married  to-morrow." 

"What?" 

"Before  I  leave  town.  Here,  now,  don't  object! 
I'm  trying  to  put  through  a  great  many  things  that 
I've  neglected." 


THE   DAY   OF    SOULS  237 

And  to  the  Cranberry  lodgings  they  went  in  the 
dusk,  the  poet  still  pop-eyed  with  dismay.  He  was 
weak  at  the  thought ;  he  protested. 

"There's  a  light  in  Mary's  window,"  retorted 
Arnold.  "You  go  in.  I'll  tell  Granny  of  the  wedding 
to-morrow.  Now,  run  along." 

"But,  Ham—" 

"Sammy,  must  I  go  and  ask  the  girl  for  you  ?"  Mr. 
Arnold  was  imperturbably  businesslike. 

"No,  I'll  do  it.  Love?  Love  is  the  master  felicity 
— when  love  gets  a-hold  of  you — " 

The  other  man  swung  him  about  in  the  hall,  and 
then  went  on  ,to  Miss  Cranberry's  kitchen.  The  little 
old  woman  was  among  her  pots  and  kettles  by  the 
grimy  window,  when  Arnold  whispered  wO  her. 

"Yes,  a  wedding,"  he  repeated. 

"Bless  us !"  gasped  Granny. 

"For  Sweet  Mellody,"  continued  the  man,  "and  here 
and  to-morrow." 

"O,  Mr.  Hammy!"  she  cried.  "Is  it  true— is  it 
really  true?" 

He  backed  out  of  the  kitchen,  with  a  warning  finger 
raised  to  her  cackle. 

But  the  little  old  woman  could  not  work,  for  her 
eagerness.  It  had  come,  then — the  romance  which 
she  had  always  dreamed  she  should  some  day  shelter, 
touch  and  know  ?  The  young  life,  the  fragrant  breath, 
the  wondrous  ways — here  in  the  choke  and  squalor,  in 
the  commonness  of  the  day's  work,  in  the  gray  and 
ceaseless  path,  the  delicate  flower  had  bloomed,  its 
perfume  filled  the  air. 

The   old    woman   busied   herself   vainly   over   her 


238  THE   DAY   OF    SOULS 

dishes;  she  could  do  nothing  for  her  trembling,  her 
fluttering  pulses.  Once  there  had  been  a  young  lieu- 
tenant of  Old  New  Orleans  who  had  gone  off  to  follow 
Walker  into  Nicaragua — but  that  was  long,  long  ago ; 
and  fifty  years  of  the  gray  wolf  town  had  been  leaping 
at  her  throat  since  then. 

But  now,  here,  in  the  dusk,  in  the  silence  of  the 
dingy  kitchen,  forgotten,  unrequited,  her  tears  were 
falling — through  the  incommunicable  pathos  of  life  a 
love  song  lingered. 

A  timid  knock  came  at  her  door  presently,  and  the 
lame  girl  entered.  Miss  Cranberry  looked  at  her,  her 
heart  beating,  her  breath  short ;  she  could  not  dissem- 
ble her  eagerness.  Mary  Mellody's  face  was  pale,  her 
eyes  shining,  her  voice  came  low  as  the  flutter  of  doves' 
wings  when  she  tried  to  speak. 

"Never  mind — never  mind — "  faltered  the  little 
old  woman ;  "there — " 

The  girl  nodded.  Granny  suddenly  gathered  her 
in  her  long  arms,  the  rough  hands  about  her ;  and  in 
the  dusk  they  cried,  with  only  the  clucking  parrot  to 
break  the  silence.  Then  Miss  Cranberry  released  the 
girl  with  brisk  energy.  "There,  dear,  we  must  tell 
them  all!" 

The  lame  girl  could  not  answer  because  of  her 
throbbing  heart ;  the  triumph  that  had  beset  her  was 
dissolving  now  to  a  softer  happiness,  choking  her 
voice,  stilling  her  eagerness.  Her  fingers  crept  closer 
into  the  old  woman's  hands ;  they  stopped  again  in  the 
hall,  thrilled  by  the  pressure  of  each  other's  arms,  by 
the  exquisite  sympathy  disengaged  from  one  to  the 
other. 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  239 

So  Sammy  found  them,  so  with  shining  eyes  they 
looked  on  him,  laughing  in  happy  foolery ;  and  so  they 
came  on  John  Arnold  before  the  door  of  his  room. 

He  had  been  about  to  enter,  but  he  turned  gravely 
on  Mary  Mellody's  little  drama,  the  climacteric  of  her 
years  of  loneliness,  of  labor,  of  hopeless  outlook,  her 
lame  struggle  against  the  ruthless  foot  of  that  society 
which  gibes  at  the  girls  of  the  poor  when  it  can  not 
buy  them. 

"I'm  glad,"  the  young  man  said.  "You  children — 
you'll  have  to  hang  together  and  fight  through  a  tough 
old  game,  but  you'll  have  each  other,  and  that  is  some- 
thing— maybe  the  only  thing,  Mary,  worth  anything 
at  all." 

The  lame  girl  f alter ingly  reached  her  hand  to  his. 

"I  know,"  she  whispered ;  "but,  O,  you  always  make 
me  sorry  so — for  you!" 

"Now,  now,"  the  old  woman  cluttered,  for  she 
always  held  the  world  back  from  the  wounds  of  her 
flock,  protecting  and  dissembling  as  she  did  her  own. 
"Now  Mr.  Sammy  can  write  poetry — now  there'll  be 
some  great  things!" 

"Because  you  love  him,  don't  you,  Mary?"  said 
Arnold,  and  the  girl  laughed  shyly.  "Of  course  he'll 
do  great  things  wlien  a  woman  loves  him  sp." 

"Love?"  murmured  the  poet.  "I  wonder  if  love  is 
the  big  stuff,  after  all?" 

Sweet  Mellody  laughed  again. 

To  her  it  was  glad  days. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

Arnold  went  back  to  his  rooms  and  was  busied  with 
a  confusion  of  books,  papers  and  clothing  about  a 
packing-case  in  the  middle  of  the  floor.  He  looked 
over  the  disarray,  working  slowly  and  in  some  doubt. 
There  had  been  a  strangeness  about  the  day,  and  now 
the  night  and  the  silence  of  his  rooms  oppressed  him 
more  curiously.  The  familiar  corner  shadows  haunted 
him;  the  piano,  with  its  oriental  brazier,  and  the 
months'  old  rose  stems,  sere  and  dried;  the  white 
figure  of  the  marble  Marquise  defined  with  a  patrician 
elegance  in  the  gloom  that  the  shaded  lamp  but  accen- 
tuated ;  even  the  faded  tinsel  god  on  the  far  wall 
seemed  to  question. 

After  a  while  he  sat  by  the  littered  table  and  watched 
the  well-known  and  variant  objects;  with  each,  in  all 
the  indifferent  jumble,  was  some  remembrance.  His 
eyes  wandered  to  the  saber  and  saddle  on  the  wall 
across  from  him;  he  could  see  the  mud  dried  in  the 
interstices  of  the  buckles — dirt  from  the  campaigns  of 
Mindanao  and  Luzon,  of  the  free  days. 

It  was  the  first  night  of  the  winter  that  he  had  been 
in  his  rooms,  that  he  had  not  idled  about  town  after 
the  races,  around  the  bars  and  cafes  and  later  the  unob- 
trusive clubs,  where  he  had  played  stud  or  faro  from 
midnight  until  seven  in  the  morning.  Clean,  well- 

240 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  241 

dressed,  inscrutable,  smiling — that  was  what  the  town 
had  seen  in  him.  Occasionally  gently,  wittily  drunk, 
but  never  unfraternal — a  good  fellow  "down  the  line/' 

To-night  the  old  life  seemed  far,  detached,  a  show 
of  small,  bright  pictures,  dissolving  one  into  another 
to  distant  melodies.-  His  impersonality  suddenly  struck 
him  as  odd,  here  in  his  rooms,  in  the  dusty  light,  amid 
the  familiar  smell  of  tobaccos,  dried  flower  leaves, 
books  and  leather. 

"It  was  never  me,"  he  mused.  "She's  right — Grace 
is  right." 

He  lingered  on  her  name,  vaguely  guessing  at  the 
hope  it  gave  him,  the  remembrance  of  unspoken  prom- 
ises. And  with  a  sense  of  guilt  he  tried  to  evade  his 
imagining  that  she  loved  him — it  must  be  this ;  it  was 
as  if  a  brilliant  star  had  flashed  within  his  sight,  and 
he  faltered,  stood  back,  exalted,  but  afraid.  He  put 
her  by  to  think  of  Sammy's  bride — her  pale  face 
recurred  in  the  dusk,  and  her  words : 

"O,  you  always  make  me  sorry  so  for  you !" 

That  was  curious  about  all  the  women  he  had 
known,  laughed  with,  loved  and  left.  What,  beneath 
the  uncaring  of  his  life,  had  they  believed  in,  idealized, 
and  turned  from  in  sorrow?  Well,  it  was  done  now. 
To-night,  in  the  silence  and  the  completeness  of  the 
ruin,  he  waited  to  be  free.  "I'll  tell  them  to-morrow 
and  then  go,"  he  mused.  "There's  nothing  in  all  the 
town  to  hold  me." 

About  the  quaint  old  sideboard  that  had  been  in  his 
father's  house  and  now  was  the  receptacle  of  all  sorts 
of  things,  the  half-grown  dog  shook  himself  and  came 
out  at  Arnold's  voice.  The  master  watched  it,  and  as 


242  THE  DAY   OF   SOULS 

always,  in  welcome  to  the  rooms,  it  sidled  forth  and 
thrust  its  black  nose  to  his  hand. 

"I  don't  know,  lad,"  the  man  muttered;  "you  and 
the  Cookhouse  Kid.  You — I — well,  I  promised  to  see 
you  through,  didn't  I?"  The  dog  from  up-in-back 
brought  Arnold's  somber  mind  back  to  Sylvia  and  the 
North,  to  the  summer  he  had  known  her,  when  it  had 
seemed,  as  it  had  seemed  with  Grace  Wayne,  that  all 
that  he  knew  of  worth  and  goodness  was  fighting  for 
his  soul— and  had  lost.  Well,  let  that  go,  too ;  he  could 
make  nothing  over  from  the  past. 

A  sound  came  to  him  from  the  chamber  beyond.  He 
listened  and  went  nearer.  In  the  dimness  he  saw  some 
one  rising  from  the  divan;  a  woman  came  out  where 
the  red  and  green  bands  of  the  Mexican  serape  about 
her  figure  made  an  astonishing  picture  in  the  doorway. 
She  had  newly  awakened,  rubbing  her  eyes,  and  the 
man  watched  her  in  surprise. 

"Why,  Nel,  what's  the  matter?" 

She  turned  her  face  toward  him  sleepily. 

"I  lay  down  on  your  bed  at  six — I  wish  I  hadn't — 
I  feel  like  the  devil  now.  I'd  been  drinking  pretty 
hard  to-day,  Hammy!" 

She  laughed,  pressing  a  handkerchief  to  her  eyes. 
He  saw  her  white  lips  move  inaudibly,  her  swollen 
face  grimace  with  weariness. 

"Look  here — "  Arnold  began,  but  her  little,  defying 
laugh  cut  him  short. 

"I've  broken  away,"  she  added  mechanically. 
"Harry  hit  me  and  I  quit  him.  I  told  him  that  Eddie 
Ledyard  had  cared  for  me  and  he  laughed ;  and  then  I 
said  all  you  sporting  men  and  politicians  were  thieves 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  243 

and  liars  and  murderers.  He  hit  me  and  I  just  took 
my  diamonds  and  left." 

"Yes/'  said  the  young  man  quietly. 

She  laughed  again  and  on  his  bed  tossed  a  little 
chamois  bag  with  a  flirt  that  scattered  her  jewels  over 
the  counterpane.  They  lay  here,  there,  in  a  dozen 
spots ;  two  big  solitaires,  a  marquise  ring  of  diamonds 
and  rubies,  a  diamond  cluster  set  in  a  barbaric  native 
nugget  and  half  a  dozen  other  trinkets.  At  her  throat, 
holding  his  beflowered  robe,  was  the  great  pearl  but- 
terfly that  she  loved  best  of  all. 

"O,  well,"  she  murmured,  in  her  old  careless  humor ; 
"it's  all  in  the  day's  work.  Eddie's  dead,  and  I've 
quit  Harry  for  good.  One  man's  much  like  another, 
and  I'll  break  even  with  this  town  some  way.  I've 
held  back  from  a  good  many  things,  but  now — damn 
you  all — you  men!" 

She  paused  by  the  pier  glass,  her  white  arms  raised 
to  put  back  the  hair  from  her  small  neck;  the  lamp 
cast  an  aura  upon  the  rustling  silken  sleeve,  as  she 
moved  and  talked.  "I  just  drifted  all  day  with  Myrtle. 
Some  big  mining  man  loaned  us  his  machine,  and  we 
smashed  it  at  the  Beach.  Then  I  jumped  a  car  and 
came  down  here  to  buzz  you.  I  want  your  advice. 
That  mining  man  wants  me  to  go  to  Goldfield.  He's 
a  friend  of  Tex  McLane  and  Senator  Fairchild.  You 
see,  there'd  be  nothing  too  big  for  me  to  go  after  up 
there."  She  turned,  with  her  warm  little  laugh. 
"Hammy,  tell  me,  would  I  make  good?"  He  did  not 
answer,  and  she  demanded  sharply:  "Tell  me.  And 
here — I  want  a  cigarette!" 

Arnold  extended  his  case.    The  girl  sat  back  in  the 


244  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

great  leather  chair  and  her  eyes  roved  about  the  walls 
— to  the  student  sketches  and  studies  in  fading  oils, 
the  photographs  of  camps  and  marches,  the  weapons 
of  savage  islanders,  Mexican  ware,  the  silver  and  plate 
and  furniture  that  had  been  once  in  his  father's  house, 
the  careless  disorder  of  the  music  and  magazines  on 
the  piano,  the  inextricable,  close  confusion  of  every- 
thing in  the  two  apartments.  Nella's  face  was  pretty 
in  the  light's  softening,  in  the  negligee  of  the  oriental 
robe;  her  smart  clothes  no  longer  obsessed  and 
obscured  her  girlishness — and  she  was  but  twenty-two. 

"Have  you  been  down-town?"  she  asked.  "I  won- 
der if  Harry  left  any  word  with  Fergy  for  me — or 
anything,"  she  added  vacantly. 

"No,  and  he  won't.  Nella,  he's  through  with  you. 
I  know!" 

She  played  with  the  ivory  paper-knife  on  his  table. 
"Maybe,"  she  put  in  indifferently.  "It's  all  in  the 
game.  I  damned  him  good  and  hard  about  Eddie — I 
damned  you,  too.  I  told  Harry  he  had  made  a  thief 
of  you.  I  don't  need  any  of  you.  I  can  get  along. 
I've  got  my  kid  sister  at  Notre  Dame  to  take  care  of, 
but  7  can  get  along !" 

He  looked  at  her,  her  prettiness,  her  uselessness,  her 
frail  drifting  through  the  red  sea  of  life  that  had 
crushed  thousands  wiser,  stronger  than  she.  Life 
had  nothing  for  her;  she  would  be  the  joke  of 
love  as  money  is  of  honor.  She  had  done  her  best 
with  the  light  given  her,  though  that  best  be  worse 
than  nothing. 

"Kid,  you'd  better  not,"  he  muttered. 

"What  else?"  she  idly  said;  "tell  me?" 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  245 

"Nella,  you're  a  fool." 

"So  are  you,  aren't  you?" 

He  watched  her  through  the  dusk  of  the  quiet  room. 
"Stay  here  a  while.  You  can  help  do  something." 

"Take  care  of  the  kids ;  sweep  the  halls  for  the  old 
lady?"  Nella  raised  her  arm  indolently  above  her 
red-brown  hair.  "It  would  drive  me  wild — and,  be- 
sides, a  girl  needs  so  many  things.  My  bills  last  month 
were  three  hundred  and  forty  dollars." 

The  young  man  went  to  sit  on  the  broad  arm  of  her 
chair ;  he  took  the  girl's  ringers,  raising  them  to  watch 
the  glint  of  the  marquise  ring,  which  she  had  put  on — 
the  rimming  diamonds  and  the  exquisite  rubies. 
"Yes,"  he  said;  "I've  nothing  to  say — we're  both  hit 
pretty  hard,  aren't  we?" 

Arnold  rose  and  went  to  the  window.  "My  God, 
what's  life?  We  brought  you  here,  didn't  we — we 
men?  But  I'm  breaking  with  it,  Nel — I'm  shot  to 
pieces — this  business  of  Eddie  and — " 

"O,  well!"  she  retorted;  "we'll  plunge  on  and  for- 
get !  You've  done  it  before.  Hammy,  you're  the  most 
dangerous  man  I  ever  knew  because  you're  good  to 
people  and  they  like  you.  There  was  Eddie  and  here's 
Fred,  and  there  was  that  country  girl  you  brought 
down  here  and  robbed." 

He  turned  swiftly  on  her,  but  his  voice  was  gentle, 

"Now,  don't,"  he  muttered.  "Nel,  I'm  leaving 
it  all." 

She  raised  herself  higher  in  his  great  chair,  her 
eyes  widened.  For  the  first  time  she  noticed  the  pack- 
ing-case beyond  the  table  and  his  clothes  scattered 
about  the  floor. 


246  THE   DAY   OF    SOULS 

"Going?"  she  repeated.     "Why,  Hammy!" 

"Yes,  North." 

"To  stay?" 

"Yes.  Someway,  or  other,  I'm  going  to  save  my- 
self." 

She  idled  with  her  diamonds,  watching  their  glint. 
"You've  been  queer  ever  since  that  girl  quit  you — or 
you  her.  Perhaps  you  cared — "  She  laughed  nerv- 
ously. "It's  different  when  one  cares — and  somebody 
else  cares.  A  woman  can  keep  straight  and  go  on,  if 
somebody  cares." 

"Yes,  Nel,  it's  a  fierce  game,  isn't  it?  But  some- 
where things  are  getting  clearer  for  me.  I'm  going 
North  and  ride  range — and  forget." 

She  watched  him  placidly  for  a  time,  and  then  a 
sudden  enthusiasm  swept  her. 

"Hammy,  you  go — it'll  be  grand !  You'll  straighten 
things,  and  get  brown,  and  drive  those  little  lines  from 
about  your  eyes.  O,  the  country — I  never  thought  of  it 
for  you !" 

"Look  here,"  he  answered,  after  a  pause,  "what  are 
you  going  to  do  ?" 

She  laughed  with  her  trifling  good-humor.  "O,  I'll 
get  on !  Things  have  broken  with  me,  too.  I'm  going 
to  pay  Granny  two  weeks'  rent  and  just  look  around. 
I've  got  to  have  money.  I've  got  Jessie  to  take  care 
of  at  the  convent — but  I'm  all  right.  And  I'll  go  in  to 
make  good  big,  now.  I  can  go  to  Europe  any  day  I  say 
the  word." 

She  sat  higher  to  look  in  the  glass,  restlessly  human, 
loosening  the  robe  at  her  throat  to  see  better  its  flute- 
like  contour.  The  man  saw  the  lure  of  the  town  in  the 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  247 

white  hand  raised  to  her  turquoise  comb ;  he  spoke  idly 
after  a  time. 

"I  told  Eddie,  once,  that  I'd  look  after  you,  Nel. 
He  begged  me  to  help  you,  when — the  day  came." 

"That's  like  the  boy,"  she  retorted  simply ;  "but  I'm 
all  right.  And  you — "  she  added  shortly —  "Hammy, 
you  go  make  a  man  of  yourself." 

"Look  here,  Nel,"  the  man  paused  in  his  pacing  of 
the  room  and  stood  before  her,  "I'm  going,  and  I  want 
you  to  cut  all  this.  You've  broken  with  Harry  and 
now,  I  want  you — I  want  you — "  he  stopped,  his  voice 
rilled  with  uncertain  trouble — "I  want  you  to  cut  all 
this.  Nel,  I'm  sorry  for  you." 

She  sat  forward  with  a  slow  intake  of  breath, 
laughed  in  confusion ;  and  then,  beneath  her  parleying 
humor,  a  flash  of  bitter  energy  came  at  some  look  on 
his  face. 

"Sorry?  For  me!  O,  my  God — you — you  sorry 
for  me !  Why,  I'm  better  off  than  you  are — I'm  better 
than  you  are !" 

She  twisted  up  from  the  chair  and  stood  before  him. 
"Go  on!"  she  cried.  "Don't  preach  to  me!  You  go 
quit  it  all — but  don't  you  try  to  make  me  different. 
You  men  made  me !" 

She  flashed  past  him  in  the  dusk.  Her  laugh  came 
to  him,  hot,  reckless,  shrill  in  its  taunting.  "You 
made  me !"  she  cried.  "O,  go  leave  it  all !" 

He  turned  from  the  table  to  find  her  before  the  long 
glass,  rubbing  her  hot  cheeks  with  the  chamois.  The 
action  interpreted  itself.  She  went  to  the  hall  door, 
loosening  the  flowered  robe  at  her  throat.  Arnold  fol- 
lowed her  and  barred  the  way. 


248  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

"Where  are  you  going  ?"  he  demanded,  as  she  turned 
on  him  for  egress. 

"To  get  my  hat  and  things  in  that  spare  room." 

"It's  late — you've  got  to  stay,  Nella.  Granny  has 
a  place  for  you  to-night." 

"No."  The  girl  fought  to  get  past  him;  he  held 
her  against  the  wall,  his  forearm  across  her  throat,  but 
she  stared  at  him  defiantly.  "You  can't  go,"  he  mut- 
tered. "You  can't — I  won't  have  you  on  the  street — 
you  shan't!" 

"Well — "  the  girl  watched  him  a  moment,  then  re- 
laxed her  tense  body  and  crept  from  beneath  his  arm. 
"Just  because  you're  stronger,  eh  ?  What'll  I  stay  here 
for?" 

"You  can't  go,"  he  repeated  gravely;  "you  can't!" 

She  watched  him  a  long  time,  and  then  her  old  care- 
less laugh  broke  out  with  a  puzzled  note  in  its  good 
humor. 

"What  are  you  after?  Do  you  want  me  to  love  you, 
too?" 

"Nel,"  he  whispered,  "be  still !  Do  you  want  us  to 
drag  each  other  farther  down  ?" 

His  voice  and  eyes  stilled  her  playing.  They  did 
not  belong  to  the  fellow  of  old,  his  whimsical  gravity 
and  self-sufficient  uncaring. 

"I  told  you  I  was  breaking  away,  Nel,"  he  went  on. 
"There's  only  one  thing  more  to  do.  I'm  going  to 
San  Quentin  and  tell  the  old  man  that  I've  given  up 
the  fight — something  keeps  saying  to  me  that  dad 
would  rather  serve  his  time  than  have  me  get  him  out 
by  the  crooked  work  I've  done.  And  I'm  going  to  ask 
him — I've  a  sort  of  fever  to  ask  him — to  have  him  tell 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  249 

me  to  be  square,  so  that  I  could  stand  clean  before  his 
soul !  Then  I'll  go  away." 

She  was  silent  with  surprise ;  perturbed  and  marvel- 
ing at  him.  She  could  not  understand,  and  looking 
steadfastly  into  her  eyes  he  knew. 

"Hammy,"  she  laughed,  "you're  so  funny  now !" 

The  girl  slipped  back  to  the  chair  and  sank  in  it 
while  he  sat  down  by  the  table  across  from  her.  And 
again,  as  he  stared  at  her,  her  careless  laugh  rang  out. 

"Give  me  a  match,"  she  said.  "O,  you  fool !  There's 
nothing  to  care  for  or  about !" 

The  young  man  raised  himself  to  watch  her  long 
and  steadfastly. 

"Nel,  did  a  thought  of  your  soul  ever  come  to  you  ?" 

She  gathered  herself  closer  in  the  luxurious  comfort 
of  the  leather  chair — a  small  heap  of  color  in  the  ori- 
ental robe  under  the  lamp  glow,  looking  at  him,  her 
blue  eyes  expectant  with  wonder. 

"My  soul  ?"  she  repeated,  "why,  no.  I  just  drift  on 
like  a  leaf  in  the  storm." 

"Yes,"  he  added  somberly,  bewildered  by  some  vision 
of  himself  fighting  back  from  the  dark  enveloping  her, 
"a  leaf  in  the  storm!" 


CHAPTER   XVII 

Arnold  was  turning  about  the  deck-house  of  the 
Tiburon  as  she  lurched  through  the  tide-rip,  with  a 
wind  shrilling  over  her  funnel  that  beat  all  the  waters 
from  Alcatraz  to  the  Golden  Gate  to  a  green-white  car- 
pet, when  he  came  on  Assemblyman  Weldy.  The 
legislator  was  on  the  fore-deck,  his  collar  upturned 
against  the  cold,  watching  the  sea  fog  tumble  above 
the  cliffs  about  the  harbor  and  stream  shoreward  to 
eat  away,  bit  by  bit,  the  western  glimpses  of  the  city. 
Arnold  also  had  come  forward  to  pace  the  deck  in  the 
fresh  weather ;  for  none  other,  he  thought,  would  brave 
the  exposure,  and  he  wished  to  be  alone.  He  took  off 
his  hat,  and  allowed  the  gale  to  tug  at  his  hair,  watching 
Weldy,  meanwhile.  When  the  latter  turning,  saw  him, 
he  shook  his  brown  derby  and  laughed  a  greeting. 

"Took  the  round  trip  for  the  ride,"  said  Weldy,  as 
their  hands  met.  "I  saw  it  was  going  to  be  a  squally 
afternoon,  and  I  sort  of  wanted  something  to  tumble 
me  about  and  blow  through  me.  Ain't  it  cold,  Ham 
—for  May?" 

"Fine !  Look  at  that  old  windjammer  trying  to  pick 
her  way  past  the  Heads  ?  Wouldn't  it  be  great  to  be 
putting  out  for  Tahiti  or  the  Marquesas  or  anywhere 
four  thousand  miles  away !" 

"Ten  thousand!"  retorted  Fred.  "God,  yes;  the 
farther,  the  better !" 

250 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  251 

"If  I  didn't  have  wife  and  babies,"  continued  the 
printer,  watching  the  last  glimpse  of  the  illimitable 
Pacific,  for  Fort  Point  filled  the  gap  as  the  steamer 
swung  nearer  the  city  heights,  "I'd  cut  out — I'd  go  to 
Australia  or  New  Zealand.  I'd  go  to  work  and  study 
the  cooperative  commonwealth  again.  I'd  throw  my- 
self in,  and  get  enthusiastic  and  do  something.  Ham, 
I've  made  an  awful  failure,  ain't  I  ?" 

"Fred,  you're  only  thirty.  What  business  have  you 
talking  that  way  ?" 

"Well,  here's  yourself,  old  man!" 

They  stared  into  the  darkening  west,  the  green-gray 
mystery  of  the  sea  fogs  blotting  the  world.  A  single 
bar  of  yellow  smote  up  from  the  buried  sunset;  the 
steamer,  hastening  through  the  turmoil  of  wind,  was 
bearing  them  toward  the  string  of  wharf  lights  as- 
tonishingly clear  along  the  city  front.  The  silence  be- 
came long  and  eloquent  of  introspection.  Arnold 
sighed  at  length,  turning  his  face  with  the  damp  hair 
blowing  about  his  eyes,  to  his  friend.  There  was  a 
trace  of  gray  about  Fred's  temples ;  and  Arnold's  curls 
were  thinning.  Each  man's  face  had  set  graver  the 
past  year — yes,  they  were  growing  older,  and,  watch- 
ing each  other,  it  seemed  the  same  thought  held  them. 

"We've  played  it  pretty  hard,"  said  Weldy.  "Ham, 
the  little  lines  about  your  eyes  tell  a  good  deal." 

The  other  studied  him  as  if  he  were  seeking  com- 
mon ground  of  understanding;  when  he  spoke,  there 
was  an  explosive  relief  in  his  tone ;  he  turned  with  di- 
rect simplicity  on  his  friend. 

"Fred,  you'll  think  I'm  crazy  when  I  tell  you  what 
I've  done." 


252  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

"Done?    Lord,  no  one  could  keep  track  of  you!" 

"I've  been  to  San  Quentin,"  continued  Arnold.  "I 
saw  the  old  man." 

Fred  turned  doubtfully  and  looked  up  the  wild  north 
shore.  Over  the  waters  the  lights  of  the  prison  town 
were  beginning  to  ride  out  in  the  gusty  dusk.  "I 
thought  he  wouldn't  ever  let  you  see  him  there?" 

"I  didn't  ask  him — I  just  went.  I  met  him  in  tHe 
warden's  office.  They're  pretty  easy  on  him.  He  just 
keeps  a  few  records  and  files,  and  they  treat  him  all 
right.  But  he's  looking  old  and  worn,  Fred.  He'll 
never  be  the  big  plunger  again,  and  he  knows  it.  Dad 
was  quiet  and  peaceful ;  yes,  it  surprised  me  so — just 
quiet  and  peaceful." 

"It's  pretty  tough,"  murmured  Fred ;  "pretty  tough." 

"Well,  I  don't  know.  Do  I  look  any  different  now  ? 
I  feel  queer.  Fred,  I  went  up  there  to  tell  the  old  man 
the  whole  story !" 

"The  whole  story  ?    What's  the  matter  with  you  ?" 

"I  mean  the  way  I'm  mixed  in  things.  I  was  going 
to  put  it  all  up  to  dad — all  I'd  done,  all  the  fool  I've 
made  of  myself.  And  then  I  met  him,  Fred,  and  I 
hadn't  a  word  to  say.  You  see,  he  received  me  so  dif- 
ferently. He  was  as  peaceful  as  old  Captain  Calhoun, 
waiting  up  there  for  Larry.  I  couldn't  understand  for 
a  time ;  and  then  he  said :  'You're  being  pretty  straight, 
aren't  you,  son?  I  want  you — you're  all  I'll  have 
when  I  get  out,  and  I  want  you  clean,  John — I  want 
you  clean !' '' 

"Yes,"  muttered  Weldy,  "I  know." 

"Fred,  after  that — after  he  talked  on,  and  I  saw  how 
he  was  waiting  for  me  to  make  good — I  wouldn't  have 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  253 

had  him  pardoned  and  out  of  the  pen  to-day  for  the 
biggest  bank-roll  in  the  town !  I  thought  he'd  fight  and 
fret  for  that  pardon,  and  to  get  his  name  clear,  and 
have  a  dash  at  things,  and  the  old  man  never  mentioned 
it — he  simply  wanted  to  know  if  I'd  been  square!  You 
see  where  it  put  me,  don't  you?  He  just  straightened 
up  and  put  a  hand  on  my  shoulder  and  said :  Tm  an 
old  man  now,  and  things  won't  matter  much.  They'll 
forget  me,  but  you,  son — I  want  you  as  you  were  when 
we  used  to  ride  over  the  hills  and  through  the  big 
camps,  and  watch  the  work;  a  clean,  fine,  brave  little 
chap,  you  were !'  " 

The  two  men  on  the  ferry  deck  were  still  for  a  while, 
each  with  his  hat  off,  blown  and  buffeted  by  the  wind, 
as  they  stood  shoulder  to  shoulder. 

"Yes,"  said  Weldy,  again,  "I  understand !" 

"Don't  talk  any  more  queer  work  to  me,"  Arnold 
went  on  at  length.  "I'm  through.  They  can  break  me 
— but  I'm  through.  I've  been  fighting  for  years ;  but 
now  that  I've  lost,  I'm  glad.  That's  queer,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes— and  what  are  you  going  to  do  ?" 

"I'll  quit  the  town.  I'm  going  to  break  away  and 
start  anew  somewhere  and  have  things  different  when 
he  comes  out.  He'll  be  old  and  peaceful,  and  he'll 
never  quite  know,  if  I  go  away  now  and  let  the  town 
forget  me." 

The  legislator  looked  moodily  off  at  the  city.  "God's 
sake !"  he  muttered,  "I  wish  I  could !  You're  leaving 
me  in  it  all !" 

The  two  friends  were  silent  in  the  tugging  breeze. 

The  boat  was  sheering  off  the  ferry  slips,  feeling  the 
ebb-tide  for  the  run  in. 


254  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

"I  passed  you  money,  didn't  I?  I  think  we  were 
both  drunk."  Arnold  laughed  briefly.  "I'm  pulling 
out  of  that,  too.  Fred,  I  want  it  back." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  retorted  Weldy.  "You  want 
it  back?  Christ's  sake,  Ham,  will  you  take  it?" 

The  other  man  nodded  to  Weldy's  staring  eyes. 
"Ham,  I  pass  it  up,"  muttered  his  friend.  "I've  carried 
the  money  around  all  this  time — I  ain't  spent  a  cent  of 
it.  I'm  in  a  tight  place,  but  I  ain't  touched  it !" 

"Give  it  to  me,"  said  Arnold,  and  as  Fred  fumbled 
under  his  overcoat,  his  hand  went  under  it  also  and 
their  fingers  clasped,  tightened  and  held  each  other's 
over  the  bribe  money.  The  steamer  was  plunging  in 
between  the  lines  of  wave-lashed  piles ;  through  the 
doors,  from  the  brilliantly  lighted  cabin,  the  passengers 
were  pouring  as  the  moorings  were  made  fast.  In  an 
instant  the  throng  was  about  the  two  silent  men  clasp- 
ing hands,  their  bodies  touching  each  other,  their  faces 
averted. 

"Old  man — old  man — "  whispered  Fred.  "O,  you 
don't  know — can't  tell!  Don't  leave  town — Christ's 
sake — help  me  through  it  all !" 

"We'll  fix  it  somehow — here,  now — "  They  were 
borne  along  under  the  ferry  arches  by  the  crowds, 
stumbling  through  the  rush  of  life  under  the  staring 
arcs — newsboys,  hotel  runners,  police,  suburban  com- 
muters rushing  for  boats,  arriving  passengers  swarm- 
ing to  the  half  mile  of  cable-cars  worming  into  the 
turn-table.  All  about  were  the  cries  and  tumult  of  the 
dusky  gray  city,  the  swinging  glitter  of  the  city ;  and 
now,  in  the  shelter  of  an  arch,  they  turned  to  each 
other. 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  255 

"I  got  to  go  home/'  said  Weldy.  "I  want  to  see  Lil- 
lie.  I  got  to  go  to  the  capital  to-morrow — but  I  want 
to  go  home.  I  suppose — "  he  laughed  nervously — "you 
want  me  to  be  square,  Ham ;  to  make  the  best  fight  I 
can!" 

"Square!"  whispered  his  friend;  "it's  strange! 
What's  on  us,  Fred  ?  You've  got  your  fight,  and  I've 
mine!" 

And  they  laughed  in  a  sort  of  gladness,  as  their 
hands  tightened  on  each  other's  in  the  surging  crowd4; 
then  Fred,  his  broad  figure  above  the  pack,  was  swept 
toward  the  gates  of  the  Oakland  ferry. 

Arnold  walked  up  Market  Street  to  stop  at  the 
Rococo  saloon,  idling  alone  and  thoughtful,  his  elbows 
on  the  bar,  a  heel  on  the  foot-rail,  heeding  nothing  of 
the  gabble — the  races,  the  fights,  the  graft.  Amid  all 
this  banal  smartness  of  the  town's  night,  the  garrulous 
shift  and  play  and  comment  overlying  the  businesses 
of  men,  he  went  now  with  a  satisfied  seriousness.  Yet 
he  was  troubled;  he  took  out  the  two  hundred  and 
fifty  dollars  which  Weldy  had  returned  him,  smoothing 
the  crinkly  bills.  The  balance  of  the  five  hundred 
given  him  to  bribe  the  legislator,  he  had  spent  on  his 
own  devices.  And  now  he  would  have  to  raise  the 
amount  somehow,  and  give  it  back.  He  must  rid  him- 
self of  this  thing  now,  if  it  was  ever  to  be  done,  if  he 
was  to  meet  "the  old  man"  clean-hearted,  when  San 
Quentin's  gates  swung  open — if  his  soul  was  ever  to 
awaken. 

He  went  to  the  Washington  Street  lodgings  early 
that  night.  The  Polacchi  children  were  gone ;  Sammy 
and  his  bride  were  wedded  and  in  the  country  for  a 


256  THE   DAY   OF    SOULS 

week's  honeymoon.  There  was  room  a-plenty,  for 
Granny's  house  was  running  slack  these  days;  in  the 
little  kitchen,  where  the  old  woman  usually  sat  nod- 
ding until  ten,  there  was  no  light.  The  place  was  quite 
forlorn. 

In  his  own  apartments,  curled  in  the  big  chair  by  the 
lamp,  Arnold  found  Nella  Free  reading  listlessly  a  nov- 
elette that  had  to  do  with  lords  and  ladies  and  intrigues 
— the  only  sort  of  story  that  Nella  knew  existed.  The 
girl  greeted  Arnold  with  drowsy  interest,  one  arm 
raised  lazily  to  fasten  a  comb  in  her  tumbled  hair. 

The  past  two  days  had  been  dull  enough ;  she  had  not 
left  the  lodgings,  and  had  pestered  the  old  woman 
morning  long  with  idle  and  commonplace  questions. 

"I  wish  that  crazy  Sammy  and  the  lame  girl  he  mar- 
ried would  come  back,"  she  said  to  Arnold.  "It's 
fierce  here — I  don't  know  why  I've  stayed  around.  I'm 
just  drifting." 

The  young  man  sat  down,  rolling  a  cigarette  in 
silence. 

"Boy,"  she  murmured,  "you  must  be  getting  poor, 
to  come  down  from  Egyptiennes  to  brown  paper !" 

He  held  up  his  self-made  cigarette.  "Nel,  there  are 
worse  days  coming!"  His  slow  smile  had  the  tension 
of  trouble.  "I  need  two  hundred  and  fifty  pretty  badly 
to-night." 

"Look  here.  Are  you  playing  the  races  again  so 
soon— after  that?" 

"No.  I  took  a  piece  of  money  last  week  to  put  a 
deal  through  and  I  spent  it.  Now  I've  got  to  get  it 
back.  Nel,  I'm  in  earnest — I'm  squaring  up." 

She  laughed  again  out  of  her  idle  knowledge  of  the 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  257 

town's  ways;  she  did  not  question  him  as  she  looked 
indolently  through  the  golden-linked  bag  hanging  to 
the  chair.  "I've  forty-five  dollars,"  she  said,  "if  it'll 
help." 

He  shook  fiis  head :  "I  need  two  hundred  more  to 
shove  that  bribe  money  back  to  Harry.  I'll  get  it,  Nel 
— I'll  rake  the  town  to-night." 

"If  you're  going  to  break  with  them,  you'd  better 
not.  They've  got  you  pretty  tight  now,"  she  smiled. 
"You  see,  I  know!  You'll  have  to  stay  away — you'll 
just  have  to  change  everything — everything!" 

Arnold's  eyes  sought  hers  with  their  little  worry 
lifted  by  an  eagerness  he  did  not  conceal. 

"I  know.  Everything's  got  to  be  different !  I  can't 
go  away  with  things  half  done.  Kid,  I  wonder  if  you 
know — if  you  feel — if  you  felt  as  I  do,  what  you  would 
do?" 

Again  her  confusing  laugh  rose. 

Drawing  a  silver  case,  she  took  three  rings  and  idly 
tried  them  on.  Exquisite  with  pearls,  turquoise  and 
diamonds,  she  held  the  largest  so  that  it  trembled  won- 
drously.  Then  she  tossed  it  across  the  room  to  him. 

"Take  it  anywhere  but  Levy's,"  she  said  carelessly. 
"He'd  know  it,  for  I  pawned  it  there  the  time  that 
Stanford  student  passed  the  bad  check  at  Skelly's,  and 
we  girls  got  the  money  to  keep  his  family  from  hearing 
about  it.  You'd  not  want  Levy  to  know,  would  you  ?" 

The  young  man  took  the  ring :  "You  want  to  call  it 
a  loan,  Nel — you  mean  ?" 

"No— to  pull  you  out  square— that's  all"  She  looked 
at  him  with  nonchalant  confusion.  "O,  we've  all  been 
tiroke,  and  we'll  all  be  broke  again !"  She  spread  her 


258  THE  DAY   OF   SOULS 

small  hands  to  watch,  admiringly,  the  remaining  jew- 
els. "There'll  be  diamonds  when  we're  both  dead." 

He  looked  from  the  splendid  stone  to  her,  idle,  use- 
less, uncaring — cast  by  the  storm  an  instant  into  a 
quiet  pool.  Indeed,  a  jeweled  bauble  was  all  she  had 
to  give. 

A  step  came  to  the  hall,  a  hand  fumbled  at  the  door ; 
and  the  Captain  came.  He  blinked  uncertainly  in  the 
light,  as  Arnold  rose  and  touched  his  arm.  Gravely,  in 
the  old  wordless  play  always  honored  by  them,  they 
saluted,  each  with  his  ringer  to  his  eyebrow. 

"I  heard  your  voice,  sir?"  began  the  Captain.  "It's 
been  days  since  I  saw  you,  and  no  one  seems  to  know 
of  this  affair — the  regiment  at  Bamboang.  A  stranger 
I  talked  with  in  the  Square  had  not  heard  of  it." 

"Well,  it  wasn't  a  big  battle.  But  all  the  army  people 
know — that's  what  counts.  The  honor  of  the  service, 
Captain." 

The  veteran  nodded  sagely.  He  was  more  weak  and 
blind,  but  with  Angelo  Polacchi  to  guide  him,  he  could 
reach  Union  Square  and  sit  sunning  himself,  straining 
his  eyes  at  times  up  to  the  bronze  Victory  triumphant 
above  the  city,  above  the  evil  roll  of  life,  a  symbol  of 
the  older  republic,  of  the  uncorrupted  fathers  and  the 
fighting  fellows.  There  were  no  such  men  now ;  they 
bred  a  money-race,  gabblers  and  secret-workers;  the 
women  squab-fat  from  gorging  on  their  wealth,  the 
men  lean,  harsh,  their  souls  eaten  hollow  from  its  get- 
ting— such  had  his  America  become. 

Ah,  well !  Through  it  all  one  could  patiently  wait  ; 
it  is  something  to  have  a  son  wounded  on  the  firing- 
line! 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  259 

The  Captain  turned  to  Arnold  with  the  usual  ques- 
tion ;  his  eyes,  under  their  bushy  brows,  blinking  at  the 
sparkle  of  the  diamonds  on  the  woman's  fingers.  "But 
have  you  heard,  sir  ?  Next  month  the  troop-ship  will 
sail,  will  it  not?" 

"Surely.  But  it's  a  long  ways  around  the  world — " 
The  dissembler  suddenly  had  a  curious  foreboding  of 
the  day  the  troop-ship  would  arrive  with  the  Third  Bat- 
talion of  the  cavalry — what  then  should  he  tell  the 
father  of  this  dishonored  trooper  sleeping  in  Samar  ? 

But  now  he  hurried  on :  "Ah,  it  was  great !  Larry'll 
get  the  honor  medal — a  hero,  Captain !" 

The  old  man  drew  himself  up  with  dignity — this  was 
cheap  talk,  this  of  heroes — it  was  enough  to  have 
served. 

Nella's  eyes  started  from  their  idleness. 

"A  hero?"  she  murmured.  "Larry — is  he  hand- 
some?" 

The  men  looked  disconcerted ;  the  Captain  frowned, 
his  hand  going  to  the  livid  scar  above  his  eye. 

"Why,  it  isn't  much  to  be  a  soldier,"  the  girl  re- 
sumed indifferently.  "Those  boys  only  get  thirteen 
dollars  a  month,  don't  they  ?" 

"But  the  honor  medal  from  congress" — the  young 
man  shielded  the  Captain  from  her  with  a  gesture — 
"when  you  save  a  comrade  on  the  firing-line,  Nel,  they 
give  you  a  medal." 

"The  honor  of  service,"  said  the  old  man;  "that's 
what  counts." 

From  the  door  he  saluted  gravely. 

When  they  heard  the  tap-tapping  of  the  cane  die 
away  on  the  upper  stair,  the  girl  turned  to  Arnold :  "I 


2<5o  THE  DAY  OF   SOULS 

think  he's  sort  of  crazy,  don't  you  ?  Who's  this  Larry  ? 
Is  he  good-looking — is  he  an  officer  ?" 

"He  was  my  bunky."  Arnold  faltered  a  moment 
with  a  smile  before  her  intent,  wondering  where  he 
should  limit  the  heroic  vision  he  had  called  up  for  the 
father's  eyes. 

"Is  he  a  lieutenant?" 

"Yes — he'll  be  a  lieutenant  after  this  affair  at  Bam- 
boang.  But  it  may  be  years  before  Larry  gets  home — " 

"Then  what  are  you  lying  for?"  she  retorted.  "That 
old  fellow's  waiting  for  him" — the  girl  shook  the 
young  man's  arm  and  drew  him  closer  to  the  table,  her 
eyes  bright — "and  just  suppose  he  does  come?  A  lieu- 
tenant with*  a  medal  of  honor !" 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

On  one  of  those  rare  San  Francisco  mornings  when 
the  Pacific,  ceasing  for  a  space  its  bufferings,  sucks  up 
the  odors  of  the  South  Seas  and  pours  them  on  the 
California  coast  blending  with  the  clean  north  to  make 
a  perfect  day,  Arnold  came  to  walk  with  Grace  Wayne 
to  the  northern  slope  of  the  city  sunning  itself  in  this 
peace.  He  had  asked  her  this  with  serious,  authorita- 
tive directness  and  she  went  smilingly.  From  their  feet 
the  blue  bay  rippled,  the  sun  lighted  an  opal  land  be- 
yond, the  Marin  Ranges  of  ridge  and  canon  showing 
adventurous  beauties  never  seen  save  as  now  when  the 
sea  curtain  lifted. 

They  walked  far  in  this  morning  peace,  Grace  se- 
rene with  it,  and  Arnold  self-absorbed.  From  Russian 
Hill,  where  they  finally  sat  on  the  browned  grass,  they 
watched  the  gaudy  wedge  of  an  Italian  fishing  sail  beat 
through  the  Gate.  They  had  talked  familiarly  of  com- 
monplaces ;  she  had  come  to  feel  a  pathos  in  his  confi- 
dences in  little  things,  when  within  him  he  was  strug- 
gling to  find  a  greater  way. 

"Well,  Pve  done  a  deal  since  I  saw  you,"  he  broke 
in,  at  length.  "I  went  to  see  my  father  and  it  was  as 
you  said.  I  came  away  with  the  idea  that  nothing  was 
as  important  as  to  break  with  all  this"— his  hand  swept 
over  the  stretch  of  roofs  from  the  hillside.  "Yes ;"  he 
laughed  uncertainly.  "I  got  the  bribe  money  back 

261 


262  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

from  my  friend.     It  was  the  sign  of  revolt — and  the 
fight's  to  come." 

"I  told  you  you  shall  not  fear,"  she  answered  grave- 
ly, "nor  live  half  things  nor  do  half  deeds.  You  can't, 
and  go  the  higher  way." 

He  watched  the  town,  wondering  if  from  its  common 
life  there  rose  one  note  to  the  transcendent  heights  of 
her  indwelling.  "There  are  many  things  to  consider. 
There's  the  old  house  where  I've  lived  so  long — and 
the  Captain — we've  carried  on  a  sort  of  show.  I  never 
knew  before  how  things  seemed  to  depend  on  me." 

"The  things  of  your  soul's  freedom  are  greater." 

"But  it's  hard,"  he  pleaded,  trying  to  grasp  the  sim- 
plicity of  her  view  in  his  complexity.  "A  fellow 
doesn't  know  how  to  turn.  I'm  lonesome,"  he  laughed ; 
"I've  stayed  from  the  old  crowd,  and  I'm  lonely  al- 
ready !"  He  went  on  slowly :  "You  see  there's  no  stuff 
of  heroes  in  me — not  even  a  conscience — none  of  that 
kind  of  thing.  I'm  just  tired,  that's  all — just  like  a  child 
gets  tired  of  its  play  and  wants  to  crawl  off  and  sleep." 
He  raised  his  head  to  watch  her :  "No  conscience  nor 
regret — just  dumb  and  sick  with  it  all.  I'm  not 
changed  nor  reformed — just  the  same  fellow." 

"I  tell  you  you  are  making  clear  the  divine  thing  in 
you."  She  leaned  to  him  with  a  sudden  brilliant  eager- 
ness: "You're  all  that  I  have  denied — that  I  have 
evaded  and  hardened  myself  against,  and  you — you 
have  broken  through.  O,  you  don't  know  what  you 
can  do  or  be !" 

He  rose  on  the  dusty  trail  among  the  lupines.  "I'm 
just  hammering  away," — he  smiled — "that's  all  I  know 
— the  big  fight  and  the  losing  fight." 


THE  DAY  OF!  SOULS  263 

She  wondered  at  his  gentleness,  his  commonness; 
she  wondered  if  he  knew  that  to  her  a  light  had  come ; 
that  with  him,  a  fellow  of  the  gross  earth,  denying 
grimly  and  apart,  ruthless  to  her  world  of  the  spirit, 
she  found  a  sweetness  of  the  earth  she  had  passed  by. 
But  in  the  bigness  of  his  doubts  and  trouble  he  seemed 
uncaring. 

"You'll  go  gloriously/'  she  whispered,  and  surely 
her  eagerness  was  telling  him ;  "I  want  you  to  win — 
gloriously — and  then — " 

"Then?" 

"Come  to  me,"  she  answered  simply. 

His  eyes  were  steadfastly  on  her  face. 

"See,  here,"  he  began,  "I've  known  you  less  than 
two  months — I've  seen  you  in  all,  perhaps  ten  times. 
I've  defied  you.  I've  sneered  at  you  and  turned  you 
away,  and  you  have  been  neither  angered  nor  afraid, 
nor  have  you  surrendered.  There's  something  fine 
about  it  all — to  have  you  so — and  to  have  you  tell  me 
to  come  back  to  you." 

And  again  with  her  old  impulse,  a  directness,  half- 
command,  half-caress,  she  laid  her  hand  on  his  sleeve : 
"I  mean  for  you  to  come,"  she  said  simply.  "Do  we 
need  to  speak  of  it?" 

Then  he  divined  clearly,  her  surrender — the  mystery 
of  it  stunned  him  for  a  moment,  her  challenge  and  her 
daring — the  completeness  of  her  standing  forth  for 
him.  Again  he  knew  a  soul  had  touched  his  own ;  out 
of  a  world  as  distant  from  his  as  the  stars,  as  little  to 
be  hoped  for  as  that  their  rays  should  warm  him,  she 
had  come  with  her  unfearing  revelation.  She  had 
looked  on  him — his  best  and  worst — from  a  sphere  un- 


264  THE  DAY   OF   SOULS 

thinkable  to  him ;  she  came  to  look  with  honest  eyes — • 
she  loved  him. 

Out  of  the  fullness  of  it  all  he  could  not  speak.  She 
had  said  there  was  no  need  of  speech. 

But  presently  she  went  on  gravely,  with  her  serene 
resolution.  "I  can't  tell  you  all  you've  shown  to  me — 
down  through  the  deeps  you  made  me  follow  you,  to 
listen,  to  try  to  understand  you  and  the  others. 
There  was  something  I  had  not  dreamed  of — there 
seemed  a  splendor  in  it  all — so  much  of  faith  and  try- 
ing—" 

"You  know  now  the  worst  about  me,"  he  put  in 
simply.  "I've  never  done  a  friend,  though  I  killed 
Eddie.  And  there  isn't  a  woman  walks  this  town  that 
can  say  I  dragged  her  down.  When  I  could  I  tried  to 
help." 

"No,  not  that,"  she  answered ;  "I  could  not  forgive 
that!" 

"Never  that,"  he  went  on.  "Perhaps  it  was  you 
somewhere  in  the  dark  days  that  stopped  me." 

"I  told  you  once,"  she  touched  his  arm  with  a  new 
overarching  sweetness  that  stirred  him  as  nothing  yet 
had  done,  "that  I  had  been  with  you  long  ago — that 
the  face  of  a  man  who  loved  me  seemed  to  come  again 
in  you — the  saintliest  man  I  ever  knew.  In  you,  John 
Arnold,  your  lawless  uncaring  soul !" 

"You  loved  him  ?"  he  said  and  stared  at  her. 

"I  was  touched  by  it.  I  was  never  awakened  then ; 
I  have  gone  all  my  life  alone — until  now." 

His  hands  went  slowly  down  to  tighten  over  hers ; 
the  first  act  or  word  that  had  seemed  to  answer  her. 
"Ah,  God — it's  wonderful!  I'm  going  back.  If 
there's  anything  would  bring  a  man  back,  it's  to  know] 


THE   DAY   OF    SOULS  265 

at  last  that  a  woman  cares — that  above  all  the  wreck 
and  outrage  he  has  made,  she's  waited  and  believed  in 
him!" 

And  at  his  new  exultance,  his  sweeping  awakening 
to  this  miracle,  she  became  half-frightened,  turning 
breathless  from  his  touch,  the  passion  of  his  eyes ;  for 
she  had  not  known  this — she  had  walked  apart  from 
the  common  lot,  its  littleness,  its  sweetness.  Now  she 
stood  in  a  fear  at  her  ineptitude  and  ignorance  before 
the  spell  she  had  evoked.  This  was  to  be  love,  then, 
as  the  world  knows  it — love,  the  common  instinct, 
unheeding  and  unlovely,  that  keeps  the  human  scheme 
running,  that  breeds,  spawn-like,  in  the  sun,  and  which 
men  and  women,  concealing  the  ruthless  law  that 
scourges  them  to  it,  pathetically  glorify  in  its  squalor,, 
which  they  dissemble  as  the  gift  and  the  end  of  living. 
And  from  her  soul  she  fought  to  believe  more  than 
this,  to  find  a  way  about  the  barrier  she  had  built  life- 
long against  the  thing.  Love  had  come  to  her  out  of 
the  common  world  and  she  would  glorify  it,  too,  as  a 
symbol  of  the  infinite  and  eternal. 

So  to  his  sudden  great  hope,  the  firing  of  a  splendid 
courage  in  his  eyes,  she  tried  to  keep  her  defense,  and 
then,  laughing,  in  a  happiness  beyond  all  she  had  imag- 
ined, she  again  surrendered :  "O,  don't  ask  me !  Only 
go  on — always  on.  You  shall — you  shall  be  all  I 
dream  and  believe  for  you !" 

Her  fluttering  eagerness,  the  breaking  of  Her  seren- 
ity to  this  shy  uncertainty,  unknowing  how  to  love, 
how  to  stand  before  him,  the  confused  wonder  of  his 
eyes,  was  odd  in  her — her  proud,  tall  womanhood 
unbalanced  and  finding  need  of  the  dainty  artifices,  the 


266  THE  DAY   OF   SOULS 

allurements  of  the  sex,  which  she  had  all  but  put  by. 
So,  now  it  was  a  common  laughing  happiness,  as  of  a 
comradeship  discovered,  that  they  went  hand  in  hand 
down  the  trail  of  blue  lupines.  The  light  in  her  eyes 
was  as  he  had  seen  but  once  in  women,  and  that  he 
had  crushed,  forsaken. 

But  now  he  was  caught  up  in  a  great  light,  finding 
.a  promise  of  courage  and  gladness  that  dazed  him, 
coming  after  the  mordant  satire  of  his  yesterday.  Yes, 
now  there  would  be  a  way,  there  would  be  a  place  for 
him  somehow,  sword  room  to  strike  back  and  to 
achieve.  When  he  went  from  her  at  the.  hotel  he  was 
high  with  this  ardor ;  he  ran  down  the  steps  and  away 
as  if  now,  on  this  moment,  depended  great  issues — as 
if  the  tide  of  his  youth  flowed  back,  the  fervor  of  years 
gone  drowning  mightily  the  wreckage  and  disorder 
of  the  shores  of  his  failed  life. 

Grace  Wayne  passed  the  afternoon  in  a  reverie.  At 
iive  a  caller  was  announced.  She  met  a  stranger  in 
the  parlors,  looking  at  him  with  impersonal  interest. 
She  was  accustomed  to  whimsical  interviewers,  curb- 
stone theorists  drawn  by  her  discourses.  Here  was  a 
big  man,  with  hard  hands  and  the  clean,  homely  garb 
of  the  country- — an  unwonted  figure  to  her. 

"I've  heard  you  preach,"  he  began,  his  blue  eyes 
fixing  her  grimly.  "You  preach  of  souls  some  kind  of 
way — and  I  seen  you  twice  with  the  blackest  cur  in 
this  town.  I  followed  you  once — you  smiled  at  him. 
I'm  from  th'  Nowth.  My  name's  Banway." 

"Yes?"  Miss  Wayne  spoke  slowly,  studying  his 
implacable  calmness. 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  267 

"I  wonde'd  how  you'd  account  fo'  it,"  he  went  on. 
"It  don't  fit  with  you'  preachin' ;  though  I  can't  make 
out  all  you'  preachin'." 

"Why?  Tell  me?"  she  asked  eagerly;  "I  don't  un- 
derstand you." 

"Will  you  come  with  me?"  he  retorted,  with  gather- 
ing vehemence.  "I  want  to  show  you — to  tell  you.  I 
won't  ha'm  you — I'm  a  woodsman  from  Humboldt; 
I'll  treat  you  faih,  but  I  want  to  show  you." 

The  woman  looked  about  the  parlors.  His  voice 
was  rising,  he  was  a  striking  figure.  "Wait — I'll  walk 
with  you,"  she  said.  "What  is  it?" 

They  went  out  and  along  the  street,  the  man  silent 
until  she  questioned  him.  Then  he  answered,  more 
calmly : 

"You  know  this  Arnold — you  saved  his  life  the 
other  night.  I  was  waitin'  to  kill  him.  I  followed 
him  an'  you  along  a  ways,  but  I  didn't  get  a  chance 
with  him  alone." 

"Tell  me,"  she  said  calmly.  "I  don't  know  in  the 
least  what  you  mean." 

"I'm  taking  you  to  see  a  girl  he  brought  down  here 
— robbed  of  ten  thousand  dollars,  promisin'  to  marry 
heh — an'  turned  heh  to  the  street."  He  broke  out 
swiftly  as  she  stepped  back.  "You  know  what  I 
mean !" 

"No,"  she  answered  clearly.  "That's  one  thing  he 
couldn't  do!" 

"That's  what  he  stands  fo'— his  whole  life.  It's 
what  the  city  stands  fo',  and  I  wanted  to  ask  you — you 
preach  of  souls  an'  befriend  him !" 

She  shook  her  strong  shoulders,  drew  in  the  sun- 


268  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

filled  air,  again  herself  complete.  "I  don't  believe 
you,"  she  said;  "nothing." 

He  laughed  furiously.  "Come!  Lord  God,  I  don't 
need  to  talk!"  And  then  he  saw  some  pitiable  fear 
breaking  on  her  face.  She  crushed  the  revolt  and 
turned  away.  "God's  truth !"  the  big  man  whispered 
and  hurried  after  her. 

She  was  dulled  by  his  passion;  it  convicted  her, 
damned  her,  and  at  last  she  cried,  unheeding  him: 
"No— I  don't  believe !" 

"I  came  from  the  Nowth  to  get  heh.  She  was  the 
preacheh's  girl.  The  mate  of  the  Nelson  told  me,  fo' 
she  neve'  wrote  what  happened.  She  came  to  marry 
Arnold  last  Novembeh — he  robbed  heh,  and  she's  been 
in  a  little  Jew  shop  workin'.  I  found  heh,  but  she's 
too  crazy  sick  to  tell  me  all  of  it  now.  But  I  under- 
stand !  Here's  the  place." 

They  were  before  a  house  in  a  block  of  common 
residences  and  petty  shops.  Under  the  bay-window 
was  a  dreary  little  garden,  a  patch  of  thin  grass 
between  walks  of  rotted  brick,  with  a  cluster  of  calla 
lilies  dirtied  by  the  sweepings  from  the  door,  which 
was  under  the  stairs  leading  to  the  first  floor. 

Through  this  basement  entrance  Banway  went 
along  the  dark  hall.  They  passed  a  door  through 
which  Miss  Wayne  saw  dark-skinned  girls  bent  over 
a  dozen  sewing-machines,  each  operator  heaped  about 
with  cheap,  stiff  clothing.  On  a  long  table  piled  with 
unfinished  basted  stuffs  sat  a  thin-faced  young  man, 
the  boss  of  the  finishing  shop,  where  the  clothing,  cut 
and  measured  at  a  "ten-dollar  tailor's"  down-town, 
was  put  together  under  contract  with  the  tradesman. 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  269 

The  floor  was  strewn  with  clothes  and  remnants,  tailor- 
ing apparatus  and  ironing  boards,  work-boxes  and 
tag-cards;  the  air  above  the  snarling  machines  was 
thick  with  lint  and  dust ;  the  operators,  packed  side  by 
side,  working  in  the  thick  light  from  the  single  win- 
dow, were  in  a  blur,  and  the  chemic  smell  of  the  cloth 
stung  the  nostrils. 

The  sallow  foreman  glanced  up  from  his  cross- 
legged  posture  at  the  visitors,  then  went  to  measuring ; 
the  girls  at  the  machines  shot  furtive  looks.  Through 
this  apartment  went  the  woodsman  to  another,  win- 
dowless,  and  piled  with  clothing,  bolts  of  stuff,  boxes 
and  tawdry  furniture  indistinguishable  in  the  gloom, 
and  beyond  this  was  a  rear  room,  with  two  windows 
facing  a  court.  This,  too,  was  choked  with  boxes, 
furniture,  disordered  household  stuffs.  The  light  from 
the  sunless  yard  showed  a  bureau,  a  bed,  mean  and 
thin,  girt  in  with  trunks,  washstands  and  rolls  of  cov- 
ering; and  beyond  a  narrow  cot  hidden  by  the  barri- 
cade of  stuff  hedging  it  about. 

The  man  paused.  On  the  cot,  under  the  tumbled 
coverlet,  indistinct  in  the  light  from  the  yard,  was  a 
girl's  figure.  By  her  head,  on  a  trunk,  was  a  glass 
covered  with  a  flat-backed  hair  brush. 

"They  let  heh  sleep  here,"  said  the  woodsman  sol- 
emnly. "FouJ  of  the  girls  sleep  here,  fo'  a  dolleh  a 
week  from  each.  An*  here  I  found  heh — Sylvia,  who 
had  all  God's  out-doo's  fo'  a  home  in  the  country-up- 
in-back." 

The  girl  stirred  and  looked  up  feverishly  bright  at 
the  woman  who  bent  over  her. 


270  THE   DAY   OF    SOULS 

"It  Hurts  my  eyes — the  light/'  she  said  vacantly, 
and  brushed  the  hair  from  her  cheeks. 

"I  brought  a — a — friend,  Lei,"  said  Banway  awk- 
wardly, "just  to  see  you." 

The  girl  turned  listlessly  to  the  window ;  she  began 
to  talk  with  incoherent  swiftness,  rambling  on  until 
they  lost  the  thread  of  it,  and  Banway  turned  to  the 
woman.  "This  is  heh !  Now  you  believe  ?" 

Miss  Wayne  held  the  girl's  hand  and  watched  her 

cheeks'  color  rise  to  her  wide  eyes.     "I  don't  know 
, j " 

Banway  caught  a  picture  from  the  dresser.  "You 
don't  know  him — who's  that  ?  Theh's  his  name  signed 
— he  gave  it  to  heh  up  in  the  Nowth  fo'  he  lured  heh 
to  the  city." 

Miss  Wayne  looked  on  the  face  in  the  photograph. 
Arnold  wore  the  khaki  uniform  of  the  army  in  island 
service,  carelessly  at  ease,  the  silken  guidon  of  the 
troop  in  his  gauntleted  hands,  his  campaign  hat  tilted 
back.  The  picture  had  been  taken  five  years  ago  by  a 
native  in  Iloilo;  a  handsome,  daredevil  license  was 
about  the  pose,  the  lithe  figure,  the  thin  face — the 
adventuring  soldier  of  fortune,  the  debonair  call  of 
youth  on  mysterious  quests  was  there.  The  very 
print,  exhaling  a  subtle,  oriental  odor,  like  sandal- 
wood,  the  queer  studio  mark,  had  the  romantic  lure  of 
strange  distances,  days  of  danger  and  nights  of  mys- 
tery. It  was  evocative  of  all  that  one  beloved  would 
dream  of,  treasure,  hold  in  idolatrous  fondness — and 
across  it  was  written :  "To  my  Little  Girl  in  Blue." 

Grace  Wayne's  hands  relaxed.    The  sick  girl  caught 


THE  DAY  OH   SOULS  271 

the  picture  and  held  it  close  to  her  breast.  "It's  all 
right — all  right,"  she  murmured.  "Boy!" 

"He  was  going  to  marry  you,  wasn't  he  ?"  said  Ban- 
way,  with  abrupt,  soft  melancholy.  "And  he  brought 
you  to  the  city." 

"I  know.  He  said  we'd  have  a  little  home  some- 
where, with  roses,  and  then  he  got  worried." 

"And  he  took  your  money  and  kept  it — " 

"Don't,"  the  girl  muttered,  plucking  restlessly  at 
the  coverlets.  "It's  all  right — I  know  he  cared — I 
know  he  did !" 

Miss  Wayne  rose.  "Be  still,"  she  said,  to  the  man's 
intent  pursuing;  "let  her  be." 

"You  believe?" 

"Yes.  Come ;  we'll  have  to  get  her  out  of  this  place. 
Telephone  for  a  carriage,  will  you,  please  ?" 

The  woodsman  stared  at  her  uncertainly.  The 
woman  went  to  the  front  room.  "I'll  take  her  to  my 
apartments,"  she  said  quietly.  "She  needs  care  and 
friends — I  don't  suppose  she's  so  very  ill." 

When  Grace  Wayne  returned  from  the  telephone, 
Banway  was  holding  Sylvia's  hands,  watching  her 
with  fond  intent.  The  foreman  and  one  of  the  machine 
operators  looked  at  them  curiously,  but  when  the 
woman  spoke,  obeyed  with  the  silence  of  the  underling 
apt  to  orders.  "Gather  her  things,"  said  Miss  Wayne 
to  the  Jewess,  and  the  other  went  about  among  the 
musty  furniture  and  heaps  of  cloths,  assorting  the  sick 
girl's  belongings. 

When  the  carriage  arrived  Grace  Wayne  pointed  to 
the  cot.  "Carry  her  out — in  those  clothes  as  she  lies." 


272  THE  DAY   OF   SOULS 

"To  your  place?"  asked  Banway.  "Will  he  be 
there?" 

"No." 

"He  won't  see  heh  ?"  There  was  menace  in  his  tone^ 
a  challenge  to  her  and  her  kind. 

"Never — at  my  rooms."  Grace  Wayne's  eyes  met 
his  steadily,  and  he  did  not  doubt. 

Banway  lifted  the  girl  in  the  coverlets  and  went 
through  the  dark  hall.  In  the  afternoon  sunlight  of 
the  street  she  shrank  closer  to  his  arms  and  sobbed. 
"See  here,"  growled  the  big  man,  "you  don't  care  for 
him — damn  him — you  don't  care,  do  you  ?" 

But  the  girl  cried.  In  the  carriage  he  held  her  as 
one  would  a  child. 

They  were  driven  slowly  over  the  cobbles,  and  pres- 
ently the  carriage  stopped  before  the  Albemarle  apart- 
ments. With  a  brief  direction  to  Banway,  as  he 
carried  the  sick  girl  to  the  elevator,  Miss  Wayne  paused 
to  pay  the  driver;  when  she  turned  she  met  Nella 
Free  by  the  curb,  looking  at  her  with  suspicion  and 
surprise. 

"See  here— that's  a  girl  I've  seen,"  said  Nella.  "Do 
you  know  her?" 

"I  have  just  discovered  her." 

Nella  watched  the  man  carrying  the  wrapped  form 
through  the  door. 

"It's  a  funny  thing,"  she  muttered.  "I  just  saw 
you  passing — I  couldn't  help  wondering,  I  was  so 
startled." 

"Nella,"  retorted  Miss  Wayne,  "do  you  know  about 
this  girl?" 

"Not  much,"  Nella's  laugh  was  an  easy  evasion. 


THE   DAY   OF    SOULS  273 

The  other  woman  watched  her  searchingly — the  trim 
figure  in  its  smooth,  light  furs,  the  violets  falling  with 
Gipsy-like  carelessness  from  her  bodice,  the  small  face 
piquant,  vacantly  good-humored. 

"Will  you  come  up  with  us  ?"  Grace  asked,  after  her 
intent  study.  "Perhaps  you  can  help." 

Nella  glanced  about.  "There  are  men  in  this  place 
who  know  me,"  she  said.  "Will  you  take  a  chance  ?" 

"Come,"  answered  the  other.  They  overtook  Ban- 
way  and  his  burden  in  the  hall.  The  sick  girl  mur- 
mured incoherently  as  the  elevator  ascended.  At  the 
door  a  small  boy  in  buttons  approached. 

"A  lady  to  see  you,"  he  told  Grace  Wayne ;  "Miss 
Chatom — she  said  she'd  wait  at  your  rooms." 

Miss  Wayne  looked  at  Nella  a  trifle  disconcerted; 
then  she  opened  the  door. 

Edith  Chatom  rose  in  some  surprise,  her  eyes  on 
Banway,  who  paused  with  the  sick  girl  in  his  arms. 
She  turned  to  Miss  Wayne  in  the  rear  chamber,  her 
hand  on  the  white  counterpane  of  the  bed. 

"I  wanted  to  see  you  further  about  John  Arnold,"  she 
liad  begun.  "Watt  wants  him  to  go  to  Tuolumne 
next  month — it  would  be  the  thing — " 

"Hush,"  answered  Miss  Wayne. 

The  sick  girl  had  turned  breathlessly  to  them,  her 
head  on  Banway's  shoulder.  "O,  I  just  couldn't  find 
you,  Jack,"  she  said ;  "at  first  I  thought  you'd  left  me !" 

They  were  so  still  that  the  silence  was  interpretive. 
Miss  Chatom  came  nearer. 

"I've  heard — "  she  whispered.  "Has  he  something 
to  do  with  this  ?" 

"To  this  room,   please — "   Grace   Wayne   directed 


274  THE  DAY   OF   SOULS. 

Banway  to  tKe  bed — "yes>  he  has  had  everything  to 
do  with  it.  It's  perfectly  useless  for  you  to  know, 
but — well,  perhaps  you  can  help  to  straighten  things 
in  some  fashion." 

Edith  Chatom  nodded.  The  air  was  surcharged 
with  the  significance  of  the  thing.  The  rich  man's 
daughter  followed  the  man  and  woman  to  the  rear 
apartment.  Nella  Free  stood  alone  in  the  front  room, 
listening  to  the  preparations  in  the  chamber.  The  two 
women  were  stilling  the  girl's  delirium,  heightened  by 
the  stir  of  her  removal;  Nella  could  hear  the  quiet 
voices,  but  she  did  not  move.  They  took  from  Sylvia 
the  soiled  blanket  of  the  finishing  shop,  threw  it  with- 
out in  the  hall,  prepared  a  bath,  and  finally  closed  the 
sliding  doors,  shutting  the  man  out  in  the  sitting- 
room.  He  stood  with  his  hat  in  his  hand,  listening  to 
the  voices,  the  sound  of  running  water,  the  girl's  fret- 
ful interruptions,  looking  now  and  then  at  Nella  by 
the  door.  She  had  not  moved. 

At  length  Miss  Wayne  entered  from  the  other  room, 
searching  for  some  article  on  the  center-table.  Ban- 
way  was  facing  the  window,  blowing  the  dust  from 
the  cylinder  of  a  blue  revolver,  which  he  now  dropped 
back  in  his  side  pocket.  The  woman  came  directly 
to  him. 

"Here,"  she  said  quietly ;  "I  understand !" 
"I  don't  know  how  town  people  look  at  it,"  he  mut- 
tered.    "Out  on  the  range,  or  in  the  big  trees,  we'd 
kill  him." 

"Yes.    See  here — you  cared  for  the  girl  ?" 
The  tall  man  raised  his  blue  eyes,  looking  steadily 
into  hers.    "I  loved  heh.     I  neveh  told  heh.     I  was 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  275 

only  a  woodsman — head  fallen  at  Nine — an'  I  was 
rough.  I  knowed  heh  befo'  heh  fatheh  died — an'  I 
neveh  said  nothin' !" 

"And  you  love  her  now?  You  don't  care  for  what's 
happened,  do  you  ?  You'll  love  her  and  take  her  now; 
when  she  can  go?" 

"Would  I?"  His  wondering  eyes  resented  the 
doubt.  "If  I  could  take  heh  to  the  country-up-in- 
back — if  she'd  stop  thinkin'  o'  him  an'  this  hell-town 
whe'h  he  belongs — " 

"She  will  some  time." 

"First,  I'll  get  him—" 

"No,  that  would  spoil  everything — expose  her — 
ruin  her  whole  life  with  the  people  up  there — 
wouldn't  it?" 

"He  can't  live— he's  too  bad  to  let  live.  He's  all 
round  a  crook — I've  asked  a  heap  about  him." 

Nella  came  before  Banway  and  watched  the  bitter- 
ness of  his  eyes.  He  watched  her  with  steadfast  con- 
tempt, and  spoke  with  crushing  deliberation. 

"He's  you'  kind — yes,  we  see  that." 

Nella  eyed  him  steadfastly.  "I  don't  believe  it." 
She  turned  to  Grace  Wayne:  "Do  you?" 

"There  is  nothing  else  to  believe." 

The  woodsman  broke  in  between  them.  "Look  here 
— you're  a  religious  woman,  his  friend.  I  told  you  I 
would  kill  him.  But  will  you  promise  me,  if  Sylvia 
stays  here  with  you,  you'll  neveh  see  him?" 

"Yes." 

"Neveh  speak  to  him?" 

"Never  fear.    He  shall  not  come  here.    Never !" 

Nella  stirred  from  her  curious  apathy. 


276  THE  DAY   OF   SOULS 

"And  you — Hammy  was  sort  of  depending  on  you. 
I  can't  make  it  out,  but  you  seem  to  draw  him  on. 
You're  a  good  woman — and  he  needs  you." 

"This  does  not  require  discussion.  No  man  could 
have  done  this  and  have  hope  of  redemption."  She 
turned  away,  fighting  down  a  passion  that  they  could 
not  see. 

"He's  too  bad  to  live,"  continued  Banway,  with 
implacable  calmness.  "I  promised  not  to  kill  him,  but 
I  don't  guess  I  can  let  him  go." 

Nella  turned  to  Grace  Wayne's  averted  face,  mutely 
catching  at  some  faith  and  strength  before  undreamed 
of,  struggling  back  to  stand  in  their  eyes  and  plead. 

Then  she  began,  with  a  strange  dignity,  a  clearness 
above  the  uncaring  of  her  life : 

"Listen.  He's  bad — but  there's  something  above  it 
all.  He's  tried  to  do  some  things  well.  I  know,  for 
I've  lived  the  life.  See  here,"  she  turned  again  to 
Grace  Wayne,  "he  depended  on  you,  some  way.  You 
preach  some  sort  of  high  religion  that  no  one  under- 
stands— and  this  fellow  comes  from  up  North,  and 
what  does  he  know?  I  know  the  town,  and  what  it 
does  to  men,  and  you  don't — either  of  you.  Things 
are  good  and  simple  with  you — you  in  your  land  of 
souls,  and  this  man  up  in  his  clean  north  country.  It's 
different  here — life  smashes  men,  and  drags  them 
down.  Banway,  a  man  meets  more  temptation  in  one 
day  of  the  street  than  he'd  meet  in  a  hundred  years  of 
your  peaceful  little  life  in  the  country-up-in-back.  Any 
man  can  pitch  hay,  or  roll  logs,  or  drive  cattle — all 
that's  just  play.  But  down  here  a  man's  got  to  fight 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  277 

everything.  That's  the  way  it  is  in  the  city !  Just  do 
his  best— that's  all." 

They  stood  quietly  before  her  words.  The  girl's 
eyes  brightened  beneath  the  isolating  rebuke  of  their 
silence ;  she  turned  and  went  away,  leaving  them  star- 
ing after  her. 

Banway  sat  by  the  window,  looking  out.  Grace 
Wayne  went  to  the  other  room  to  sit  with  Edith 
Chatom,  one  on  either  side  of  the  bed,  listening  to  the 
sick  girl's  delirium.  Through  the  long  night  she  ram- 
bled on  in  endless  repetitions  of  his  name  and  her  love 
for  him. 

At  daylight  Miss  Chatom  went  away,  relieved  by 
the  nurse  they  had  summoned. 

"We'll  care  for  her  together,"  she  told  Miss  Wayne. 
"And  he — well,  I've  wanted  to  do  much  for  him,  but 
this— this— " 

"I  know,"  retorted  the  other.  "I  have  been  brought 
face  to  face,  at  last —  There's  nothing  beyond  this  for 
a  man's  soul  to  come  to !  Yes,  it's  the  end !" 


CHAPTER  XIX 

At  fifteen  minutes  to  twelve  o'clock  the  first  relays 
of  the  five  hundred  clerks,  stenographers  and  em- 
ployees from  the  departments  of  the  great  railway 
system  were  beginning  to  stream  from  the  Security 
Building  into  Market  Street  for  the  lunch  hour.  Joy- 
ous young  fellows  rattled  down  the  stairs,  impatient 
of  the  crowded  elevators,  and  through  this  rush  of 
noonday  life  Arnold  made  his  way  to  the  floor  on 
which  were  the  law  offices  of  Chatom,  Bence  and  Com- 
pany. He  had  been  at  the  Maplewood  seeking  Still- 
man,  then  at  the  latter's  club,  only  to  gain  word  that 
the  police  commissioner  was  at  his  down-town  office. 
But  here  a  clerk  said  that  Stillman  was  in  Sacramento, 
and  would  not  be  back  for  forty-eight  hours. 

Arnold  idled  in  the  corridor  for  a  while.  Then  he 
went  to  the  main  offices  of  the  great  law  firm.  A 
stenographer  said  that  Barren  Chatom  was  in  and  not 
engaged,  and  the  young  man  was  shown  at  once  to  the 
attorney's  presence.  Chatom  greeted  him  with  a  cer- 
tain surprised  cordiality ;  they  had  not  met  this  winter, 
by  reason  of  the  lawyer's  absence  in  the  East,  but 
Chatom's  unerring  memory  prompted  at  once  the  rea- 
son of  the  visit.  He  had  long  been  appraised  of  some 
understanding  affecting  Selden  Arnold's  pardon — 
that  always,  in  many  channels,  the  son  had  been  inces- 

278 


THE   DAY   OF    SOULS  279 

sant  in  importunities  for  the  governor  to  act  on  the 
application.  Yet  now  the  attorney  was  not  sure  how 
the  matter  had  been  left. 

The  senior  member,  therefore,  sat  back  in  his  chair, 
his  index  fingers,  together,  pointing  skyward,  smiling 
with  the  ease  of  the  successful  man,  out  of  an  assur- 
ance of  power.  He  had  known  Selden  Arnold  as  a 
man  who  ruined  himself  by  his  inexplicable  folly  in 
sticking  to  the  fortunes  of  a  political  aspirant  whom 
the  railroad  found  it  essential  to  destroy;  he  felt 
vaguely  that  the  son  had  a  like  waywardness.  As  to 
the  pardon,  it  was  hardly  possible  now ;  certain  "inter- 
ests" were  opposed,  and  sentiment  or  old  friendships 
had  no  place  in  the  matter. 

Barren  Chatom,  the  railroad's  candidate  for  the 
United  States  senate,  the  personal  figure  of  a  system 
that  dominated  the  state  industrially  and  politically, 
and  consented  to  the  farming  out  of  the  city  to  the 
lesser  boss  and  the  agents  of  the  boss — Chatom,  the 
man  of  the  "conservative"  interests,  church-going,  of 
social  weight  and  family  connections,  member  of  the 
leading  clubs,  professional  philanthropist,  chief 
speaker  at  important  civic  meetings,  merchants'  ban- 
quets, development  schemes,  honorary  committeeman 
on  all  occasions,  from  welcoming  a  convention  of 
bishops  to  entertaining  a  sybaritic  Russian  prince, 
director  on  the  boards  of  all  the  corporations  that 
prostituted  the  city  with  bribes  and  placated  it  with 
licensed  evils — Chatom,  representing  the  dynamics  of 
a  cohesive,  yet  infinitely  variant  social  organization 
that  drew  its  irresistible  power  through  every  level  of 
life,  from  gutter  dance-halls  to  the  United  States  sen- 


28o  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

ate,  now  looked  complacently,  benignly  across  at  the 
quiet  young  man  by  his  table. 

Cool,  wily,  astute,  indomitable,  unscrupulous — he 
looked  none  of  these;  he  was  merely  a  middle-aged 
man,  fat,  but  not  obtrusively  so,  with  a  kindly  lulling 
friendliness,  an  apparent  broad,  altruistic  observance 
of  his  fellow-men. 

Young  Arnold  was  here  inevitably  to  further  his 
father's  pardon;  he  must  be  soothed,  enlightened  and 
sent  away  to  resume  his  place  in  the  ranks,  for  Barren 
Chatom  had  a  great  interest  in  young  men ;  he  was  a 
power  in  raising  money  for  their  associations  of  all 
sorts,  and  in  addressing  them  at  the  colleges ;  he  had 
a  hearty  commencement  platitude  that  the  future  of 
the  nation  was  with  them.  Certainly  if  all  the  cool- 
faced  young  men  in  America,  like  this  one  sitting 
across  from  him,  ever  rejected  the  teachings  and  the 
examples  of  him  and  his  kind,  the  foundations  of  the 
republic  would  move,  the  grip  of  money,  of  tradition, 
of  conservatism  on  the  life  of  the  people,  even  the  hold 
of  the  fathers  and  the  constitution,  would  loosen. 

Yes,  the  future  was  with  the  young  men,  society 
was  with  the  young  men,  the  genius  and  ideals  of  the 
race  were  with  the  young  men — it  was  a  great  thought 
— he  was  dwelling  on  it  now,  and  he  would  tell  the 
young  men  of  it  at  the  associations  and  colleges. 

Barron  Chatom  began  by  a  happy  inquiry  as  to 
what  Arnold  was  doing,  adroit  and  general  questions 
in  a  reminiscent,  genial  glow;  then  he  asked — for  it 
was  nearing  lunch  time — directly  after  his  father  in 
San  Quentin.  "I  suppose,  John,  that's  why  you're 
here.  I  understand  that  the  application  for  the  par- 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  281 

don — about  which,  unfortunately,  nothing  could  be 
done  last  year — has  a  lot  of  new  signers,  and  you  will 
send  it  to  the  governor  ?" 

The  great  attorney  smiled  in  anticipatory  concilia- 
tion; a  young  man  would  like  this  frank  directness, 
even  though  he  got  nothing  from  it. 

But  John  Arnold,  the  son  of  his  old  friend,  smiled 
back  with  serene  abstraction  on  this  point.  "No,"  he 
answered,  "I've  given  the  pardon  up.  It'll  be  only  two 
years  and  a  little  more,  and  we  can  wait.  I  saw  father 
the  other  day,  and  he's  all  right.  No,  I  won't  bother 
you  any  more  about  the  pardon."  Barron  Chatom 
knit  his  brows  in  some  perplexity  as  Arnold  went  on : 
"No,  I  came  up  here  to  see  Stillman — they  said  he 
might  be  in  his  office.  He  isn't,  but  you'll  do."  He 
looked  the  railroad  attorney  over  with  quiet  sureness. 
"Here,"  he  added,  and  on  the  table  laid  five  hundred 
dollars  in  new  bills. 

Barron  Chatom  looked  calmly  at  the  money. 

"Yes?  Do  you  wish  to  leave  it  here  for  Mr.  Still- 
man?" 

"I  do.  It's  the  money  he  gave  me  to  bribe  Weldy 
to  vote  against  the  race-track  investigation — " 

Chatom  whirled  back  from  the  paper  as  if  it  reeked 
death.  His  brow  darkened  as  he  glanced  at  the  outer 
office,  which  seemed  deserted. 

"Bribe?"  he  whispered.  "What  are  you  talking 
about?" 

"I'm  through." 

"What?    Why  did  you  bring  this  to  me?" 

"That's  all  right — it's  yours.  You  and  Stillman  are 
protecting  the  game,  aren't  you  ?  You're  going  to  the 


282  THE  DAY  OF   SOULS 

senate,  aren't  you?  The  race-track  and  the  railroad 
are  both  behind  you  in  the  legislature." 

Chatom  gazed  at  him ;  then,  with  a  trot  of  trepida- 
tion to  the  door,  he  closed  it  and  stood  wiping  his 
brow,  again  looking  back  at  Arnold. 

"John,  are  you  insane?"  he  said.  "Take  that  stuff 
away!  I  don't  know  anything  about — I've  nothing 
to  do  with  it!" 

"I  know.  Stillman's  the  man  who  does  the  dirty 
work.  You  just  suggest  the  framing  up — in  the  back 
offices  and  committee-rooms,  and  all  that.  It's  all 
right.  I'm  giving  the  money  back  to  you.  I've  thrown 
off  on  Harry — that's  all.  Just  tell  him  that  I'm  not 
responsible  any  more  for  Weldy  and  what  he  does." 

"John !"  The  great  man  was  shaken,  after  all.  No 
one  else  could  have  come  so  close  on  him  as  Seld 
Arnold's  son.  The  younger  man  was  moving  to  the 
door. 

"Good-by.  I'm  not  going  to  squeal,  Mr.  Chatom. 
I  don't  know  anything  or  anybody  of  all  I've  seen  and 
done.  I'm  not  responsible  for  the  town — or  you  or 
society.  I'll  have  enough  to  make  myself  straight  now. 
I  don't  amount  to  a  damn — I'm  only  a  fellow  away 
down  at  the  bottom,  that  the  money  you  represent  has 
smashed.  You've  smashed  a  million  all  over  the  coun- 
try. But  I'm  not  kicking.  I'm  just  crawling  out — 
that's  all!" 

The  candidate  for  the  United  States  senate  came 
nearer,  wiping  his  brow ;  he  was  calmer  now.  "Take 
that  away!"  he  muttered,  pointing  at  the  money. 

Arnold  shook  his  head.  "No — I've  quit — it's  the 
last  stuff  I  handle." 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  283 

The  attorney  lifted  a  copy  of  the  constitution  of  the 
United  States,  which  happened  to  be  on  the  desk, 
opened  it  and  softly  placed  it  face  down  upon  the 
bribe  money.  He  put  one  hand  on  the  back  of  the 
chair  and  sighed.  A  semblance  of  his  benign  smile 
hovered  on  his  lips,  and  then  he  sighed  again,  and  came 
nearer  to  rest  a  hand  on  the  other's  shoulder. 

"My  boy,"  said  he,  "there  are  some  things  that 
seem  ordered  by  a  different  law  than  that  which  moves 
most  affairs  of  men.  Life  is  still  a  grinding  together 
of  ekmental  forces  only  half-harnessed,  and  not 
directed  at  all,  and  in  the  crash  a  lot  of  damage  is  done 
to  lesser  bodies.  The  greater  ones  are  not  subject  to 
the  laws  that  smash  your  schemes — and  mine,  per- 
haps." he  smiled.  "The  world  doesn't  wait  on  our 
moralities  and  philosophies,  does  it  ?  Neither  have  the 
men  who  do  things." 

"I  don't  know — I  know  one  thing  first  to  do,  and 
that's  to  fight  myself  free.  I'll  have  to  do  that  before 
I  can  help  anything  else." 

"John,"  said  the  other,  curiously  intent,  "what's  got 
into  you  ?" 

"Nothing.  Only  I'm  going  away,  and  I  wanted  to 
fix  things  back  where  they  used  to  be,  much  as  I  can. 
But  that  isn't  much."  He  laughed  briefly. 

The  maker  of  governors  and  legislators  looked  at 
him.  He  was  really  a  man  of  thought  underneath  the 
sufficient  wisdom  of  his  hour  and  place.  "You  would 
like  to  make  things  over,"  he  smiled;  "so  would  I. 
It's  a  bad  scheme,  John.  I  don't  often  talk  as  I  am 
now  to  you.  I'll  admit  we're  all  ignorant  tinkers  at 


284  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

the  thing.  My  God,  where  did  we  come  from  ?  Where 
are  we  going?    Why  are  we  here?" 

Arnold  held  up  a  finger  in  the  doorway. 

"I  don't  know.  But  I  know  I  can  do  differently. 
If  every  man  did  differently — well,  it  seems  all  the 
hard  things  would  be  simple." 

Barren  Chatom  grasped  his  hand  at  the  door.  The 
older  man's  smile  was  coming  back;  it  had  now  a 
touch  of  philosophic  sadness  that  made  him  solemn. 
"Nothing  is  more  sure!"  he  murmured,  his  hand 
tightening  over  the  other's,  "nothing !" 

Arnold  went  out  in  the  noon  sunshine  of  Market 
Street  and  walked  far,  studying  the  last  look  on 
Chatom's  face;  he  became  aware  that  he  was  pitying 
the  man,  and  this  presentment  slowly  seemed  to  en- 
compass the  street,  the  glow  and  hurry  of  life,  the 
tumult  and  the  din ;  familiar  corners  were  unreal,  as  of 
another  city;  some  thought  not  clear  to  him  effaced 
him  from  the  people,  so  that  he  seemed  watching  all 
serenely,  dispassionately,  but  removed. 

He  started  into  a  familiar  saloon,  and  then  hesitated 
on  the  step. 

"The  break's  come,"  he  mused.  "Now  for  it— I've 
quit."  His  eyes  wandered  to  the  corners  of  the  town ; 
dear  and  familiar  at  the  last  it  seemed.  The  Street 
had  been  his  play-place,  his  battle-ground.  In  seven 
years  he  had  seen  no  man's  home ;  here  had  been  his 
crucible.  It  appeared  that  he  saw  himself  now,  not 
the  noted  figure  of  the  underworld,  but  as  he  had 
been,  only  a  pitiable  bit  down  under  the  inordinate 
crushing  of  the  social  structure,  nameless,  nothing. 
He  turned  from  his  haunts  of  the  night  and  went  on 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  285 

presently,  climbing  the  hills  along  the  bay.  At  times 
he  was  filled  with  fears  and  then  prophetic  strength 
came  to  him.  He  found  the  dog  at  his  heels  in  the 
summer  sere  grass;  in  office  buildings  and  on  curb  it 
had,  as  always,  waited  for  him. 

He  picked  it  up  in  his  aimless  striding.  "Old  pup, 
we  ought  to  be  glad,  hadn't  we  ?  But  if  we  only  had 
some  one  to  laugh  with — some  cheery,  decent  people 
to  see.  Lad,  we'd  make  good,  wouldn't  we,  if  we 
could  get  back  and  forget?" 

And  then,  stopping  with  the  dog  under  his  arm, 
looking  down  from  Russian  Hill  at  the  immensity  of 
the  waterways  hemming  the  city,  he  felt  a  desperate 
loneliness — nowhere,  in  all  its  life,  was  there  place  for 
him,  no  man's  hand  to  which  he  could  turn — none. 
But  his  doubts  fell  before  strange  hopes ;  he  laughed. 
"O,  you  fool!  Why,  there's  Edith— I  can  face  her 
now.  And  Grace — she's  waiting — "  He  stopped  in 
wonder  that  he  had  seemed,  filled  with  his  own  little- 
nesses, to  forget.  "There's  Grace — she  cares.  Good 
God,  that  woman  loves  me !  Man,  what  have  you  been 
at  all  your  life  to  leave  them  out,  these  good  women  ?" 

Yes,  the  wonder  of  it — that,  after  all,  he  had 
escaped.  He,  with  his  blindness  and  his  blunders,  his 
seared  heart  and  mordant  soul — somehow,  he  had 
escaped  the  law  that  must  hold  to  punish,  to  measure 
evil  with  evil.  Yes,  he  had  been  able  to  step  aside 
and  let  the  hurricane  blow  by,  and  before  him  a  fair 
land  lay.  He  had  beheld  it  through  a  woman's  love 
for  him — her  guidance,  her  faith,  her  power.  "The 
wonder  of  it,"  he  muttered ;  "a  woman  loving  you — a 
decent  woman  loving  you  !  Old  lad,  think  of  that !" 


286  THE   DAY   OF    SOULS 

And  it  seemed,  as  it  had  been  in  his  brief  moments 
with  Sylvia,  that  all  that  was  high  and  brave  was 
fighting  for  him ;  that  the  hill  on  which  he  stood  above 
the  town  that  had  defeated  and  dishonored  him  was  a 
symbol  of  his  real  self  arisen  and  unfearing.  For  the 
second  time  he  stood  above  the  wolfish  city,  a  victor 
and  at  peace.  He  looked  down  through  the  dusk  to 
the  great  bay,  the  islands  peaked  in  clear  pools  among 
the  rippled  spaces,  the  mountains  to  the  north — he 
who  had  walked  unseeing  saw  with  a  strange  self- 
pathos  this  loveliness.  And  presently  he  came  down 
the  slopes,  overriding  all  doubts,  in  a  brimming  expec- 
tation, and  went  through  the  twilight  to  Grace's  rooms 
at  the  hotel.  He  visualized  how  she  would  look,  listen, 
smile  as  he  eagerly  told  her  what  he  had  done — that 
indeed  he  had  cut  himself  off  from  the  life  he  had 
lived.  When  she  opened  the  door,  this  happiness  was 
upon  him,  an  illimitable  new  thought;  and  then  she 
stood,  a  white  apron  over  her  gown,  before  him.  She 
nodded  in  silence  and  stepped  out  in  the  hall,  closing 
the  door.  But  before  it  shut  Arnold  saw  beyond  a 
bearded  man  busy  at  a  physician's  case  on  the  table, 
and  by  a  bedside  Edith  Chatom.  He  smiled  buoy- 
antly at  Edith.  Now,  whatever  came,  he  could  be  her 
friend,  as  she  had  generously  wished,  and  as  he  had 
stubbornly  denied — that,  too,  would  be  different. 

And  then  Edith  saw  him;  she  looked  steadily,  piti- 
lessly at  him,  with  a  disdain  impossible  to  misinter- 
pret. From  that  stare  she  turned  her  back  on  him. 
Miss  Wayne  closed  the  door,  leaving  him  gazing 
blankly  at  the  panels. 

"Well?"  she  queried,  and  the  tone  slew  the  bigness 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  287 

of  his  mission,  the  great  accounting  he  was  about  to 
give  her.  "No,  you  can't  come." 

"Come?  In  there?  But  I  only  wanted  to  tell 
you— " 

"You  shall  tell  me  nothing.  You  can't  come  here 
any  more.  I  can't  see  you."  The  coolness  of  her  voice 
broke  to  little  inarticulations  as  she  watched  the  light 
die  in  his  eyes.  "Do  not  ask — you  should  know !" 

"Know?    What?" 

"That  girl— Sylvia.  I  couldn't  think  that  of  you! 
It's  true?" 

"Sylvia?  Yes,  it's  true,  but  I— see  here — can't  I 
see  you,  tell  you — " 

"No.  Never — nowhere."  She  fought  down  the 
storm  lashing  her,  as  he  did  not  offer  to  resist  the  mat- 
ter, to  rescue  her  last  faith  in  him.  "Never,"  she 
retorted  steadily,  now  in  command;  "I  shall  not  see 
you." 

She  closed  the  door,  leaving  his  eyes  haunted  as 
they  had  been  the  night  he  dragged  Eddie  Ledyard  to 
the  cushions  of  the  gold  room.  He  went  down  and 
to  the  street,  so  confused  that  his  steps  unconsciously 
led  him  over  the  hill  and  up  the  stairs  to  his  lodgings, 
where  he  mechanically  lighted  the  gas  and  then  went 
out  to  sit  on  the  balcony  rail,  debating  and  construing 
and  defending,  gathering  his  forces  after  this  defeat. 
Yes,  the  fool — he  had  believed  himself  above  the  law 
of  recompense;  that  he  could  escape  the  measure  of 
his  evil  from  requiting  fate — the  lone  wolf  betraying 
the  pack  could  slip  back  through  the  hunters'  line.  He 
had  been  fool  enough  to  believe — but  for  the  second 
time  he  had  lost.  The  clean  world  had  rejected  him ; 


288  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

he,  with  his  crippled  will  for  good,  his  dead  soul,  was 
face  to  face  with  the  reckoning. 

From  where  he  sat  he  saw  the  lamps  down  the  street 
through  Chinatown  and  across  Kearny,  where  the 
cars  and  people  made  a  blur  of  motion.  There  was 
his  life,  his  place — the  gods  knew  better  than  he.  And, 
after  all,  what  of  his  battle?  It,  too,  was  a  sort  of 
mimicking,  a  grotesque  endeavor  to  realize  some  mum- 
mery of  priests  and  fakirs  for  which  he  cared  nothing. 
He  needed  no  interpreter  of  mysteries,  nor  a  God. 

He  had  come  back  to  his  own  now;  within  the 
grimy  kitchen  down  the  hall  he  saw  Miss  Cranberry 
bustling  about  at  the  cooking,  her  gray  hair  under  a 
soiled  cap,  the  Captain  neatly  brushed,  the  Loyal 
Legion  button  in  his  lapel,  rehearsing  his  heroic  story 
to  Nella  idling  by.  She  indolently  held  up  a  white 
finger  to  look  at  the  wondrous  light  of  her  diamonds. 

The  man  on  the  balcony  turned  from  them ;  he  saw 
again  the  dowrn-town  lamps.  The  night  pulse  of  the 
city  quickened,  its  laughter,  its  resurgent  lure,  mad- 
dening him  now,  demanding  oblivion.  Yes,  this  was 
his  place,  it  had  him — he  was  the  perjurer,  the  briber, 
the  underling  of  cunning  contrivances,  the  fetcher  for 
his  mistress,  the  City ;  for  her  he  had  sold  his  youth, 
humbled  his  manhood  to  her  bonds.  They  had  been 
as  rose  petals — now  they  were  steel. 

He  rose,  struggling  to  end  his  troubled  debates. 
"Well,  it's  done  now.  Sylvia — I  couldn't  undo  that — 
I  didn't  love  her — I  can't.  And  Grace — I  thought 
she'd  help.  Well,  I  had  my  chances — but  they're  done, 
too."  He  paused,  coming  slowly  back  to  his  resolves, 
fighting  for  them  with  a  somber  sense  of  losing,  his 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  289 

strength  spent,  his  weapons  broken.  "But  I  can  go, 
now,"  he  whispered,  and  picked  the  dog  up  from  the 
damp  of  the  boards  with  his  old  trick  of  talking  to  it. 
"We  can  make  a  way  yet — by  God — alone !  We  don't 
need  them,  old  man — none  of  them,  good  or  bad. 
We're  young — we're  free — we  can  go  alone." 

He  paused,  hardening  himself  to  it,  the  retreat  from 
the  battle  line.  And  then  he  saw  again  the  glow  of 
the  kitchen,  the  old  woman  at  her  cooking,  the  father- 
less child,  the  Captain  nodding  over  his  splendid 
vision,  the  girl's  fairness  over  her  oriental  robe — a  lit- 
tle outpost  cut  off  in  the  wilderness  of  the  city,  com- 
rades gathered  by  a  fire  from  the  hostile  dark,  the  en* 
circling  drift  of  the  storm. 


CHAPTER  XX 

Miss  Cranberry's  rent  day  fell  on  the  fifteenth  of  the 
month. 

In  the  meantime  several  things  had  happened.  The 
first  was  that  Weldy,  of  the  city  delegation  in  the  legis- 
lature and  on  the  special  committee  to  investigate  the 
bribery  charges,  had  voted  with  the  "farmer  members" 
and  against  his  political  backers.  Therefore,  events 
occurred  which  one  on  the  inside  might  have  seen  curi- 
ously correlated. 

One  of  these  sequent  Happenings  was  a  padlock  on 
the  door  of  Unc'  Pop's  grocery  and  bar  on  Washing- 
ton Street.  The  old  man  had  been  called  "on  the  car- 
pet" before  the  police  commission,  his  license  being 
due  for  renewal,  and  an  assiduously  formal  inquiry 
made  into  the  character  of  his  "side  door"  patronage. 
The  amazed  uncle  of  Legislator  Weldy  protested  and 
explained,  but  he  might  well  have  saved  his  breath 
before  the  high-minded  commissioners,  for  his  license 
was  peremptorily  revoked.  He  was  at  once  ruined, 
for  the  bar  privileges  denied  him,  the  wholesale  grocers 
to  whom  he  was  indebted  at  once  attached  his  other 
business. 

The  closing  of  Unc'  Pop's  establishment  hurt  Miss 
Cranberry's  lodging-house.  Its  patronage  had  been 
dwindling  for  months,  new  and  modern  houses  farther 
down  the  hill  getting  the  transients ;  and  the  old  room- 

290 


THE  DAY   OF   SOULS  291 

ers  cleared  out  one  by  one,  after  the  padlocked  door 
of  the  Family  Liquor  Store  deepened  the  forlorn  aspect 
of  the  corner. 

But  between  Granny  and  Arnold  the  rent  was  paid. 
The  latter  had  not  yet  forsaken  the  ancient  gable  over 
the  hill.  A  dozen  things  had  hindered,  turn  and  hasten 
as  he  might.  He  had  a  grave  kindness  for  the  little 
old  woman  these  last  days,  though  he  had  told  her 
nothing  of  his  resolve.  Neither  had  he  told  Nella 
Free,  it  appeared,  though  she  watched  the  slow  down- 
fall of  the  house  in  a  careless,  good-humored  quarrel- 
ing with  Miss  Cranberry ;  and  a  furtive  bewilderment 
at  Arnold's  preoccupation.  She  said  nothing  of  her 
hour  at  Grace  Wayne's  rooms. 

Arnold  had  been  summoned  to  a  back  room  confer- 
ence at  the  Maplewood  saloon,  the  day  after  Assem- 
blyman Weldy  voted  against  the  race-track  interests, 
and  had  come  away  with  a  smile.  He  sauntered  back 
that  morning,  and  sat  on  the  balcony  railing  above 
Happy  Alley  in  the  sun.  Here  he  met  Nella,  a  towel 
about  her  head,  her  freckles  showing  plainly  in  this 
fresh  light,  cleaning  his  hair  brushes,  while  Miss 
Cranberry  was  making  the  beds. 

"I've  had  a  session,"  mused  Arnold,  "Stillman  and 
I.  I  laid  it  out  to  him,  and  he  blamed  the  fiasco  at 
Sacramento  on  me.  He  urged  and  pleaded  and 
damned  and  bluffed — he  said  he'd  send  me  to  San 
Quentin  for  the  limit  for  perjury." 

"He  wouldn't  dare!"  muttered  Nella,  tapping  the 
military  brushes  on  the  wood. 

"You  never  can  tell — bigger  men  than  I  have  been 
railroaded  to  the  pen,  and  they  didn't  get  a  chance  to 


292  THE  DAY   OF   SOULS 

talk  so  that  it  would  hurt.  You  see,  I  couldn't  prove 
anything  with  the  city  hall  against  me,  and  if  they 
swung  me  before  one  of  the  push  judges,  I'd  go  up, 
of  course.  But  Harry  got  pretty  reasonable.  I  told 
him  I'd  quit — that  was  all.  I  wasn't  going  to  open  a 
fight— I'd  just  quit  the  graft— that  was  all." 

"You  must,"  murmured  the  girl ;  "you  got  to.  You 
go  on — it'll  be  just  grand." 

The  young  man  watched  her  in  silence,  her  face  pale, 
not  pretty  in  the  morning  light,  her  mechanical  laugh- 
ing, her  idle  ways.  He  had  always  indifferently 
evaded  the  direct  fact  of  her  life ;  she  had  been  simply 
one  woman  of  the  sort  among  whom  his  years  had 
slipped  away;  he  had  liked  her  for  her  common  hu- 
mor, her  lack  of  complexity  and  pretense;  she  had 
drifted  lightly,  and  troubled  no  one  with  accountings. 
But  now  she  seemed  a  different  being;  a  sentient 
human  with  a  problem  to  be  worked  out,  though  how 
he  did  not  know,  and  she  would  never  care. 

"When  you  go,  I  suppose  the  old  lady  will  close  this 
house,"  continued  Nella.  "The  Japs  are  taking  this 
block  fast,  and  the  big  Chinese  company  has  been  try- 
ing to  buy  the  corner  for  years.  Now  it'll  go." 

"I  don't  know  why  any  of  you  should  leave,"  mur- 
mured Arnold.  "Things  will  run  on  some  way." 

"Yes,"  she  laughed,  "they  always  do !" 

He  thought  her  look  on  him  had  a  strange  intent 
beyond  her  careless  humor.  The  day  had  oppressed 
him ;  it  had  not  been  easy  to  face  the  new  ways.  He 
had  stayed  from  the  down-town;  last  night  he  had 
wandered  on  the  North  hills  until  midnight,  thinking 
on  the  new  turn  to  his  resolves ;  finding  no  solace,  and 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  293 

lonesome  as  he  climbed  the  stair  to  the  lodgings  which 
had  sheltered  him  so  long. 

He  had  no  money ;  he  had  lost  his  "pick-up"  at  Sac- 
ramento— the  six-dollar-a-day  income  from  the  state 
treasury  was  cut  off  the  moment  he  broke  with  Com- 
missioner Stillman  and  the  track  lobby.  Within  a 
week  this  fellow  to  whom  money  had  been  a  matter 
of  no  concern,  now  thought  the  lack  of  money  the 
most  troublous  thing  in  the  world.  He  helped  pay 
Granny's  rent  and  then  had  nothing.  The  querulous 
old  woman  knew  little  of  his  entanglements  about  the 
town,  nor  his  new  resolves  that  had  begun  so  fair  and 
come  to  nothing;  she  saw  in  him  only  what  she  had 
always  seen :  the  whimsical  jester,  gravely  kind,  lawless 
and  master  of  his  self.  It  was  not  for  her,  this  hate 
and  hubbub  out  of  which  he  had  come  for  years  to 
her  lodgings ;  it  was  enough  that  she  could  smooth  his 
pillows,  and  let  the  sunshine  flood  through  the  win- 
dows of  his  rooms  of  absent  mornings.  But  she  cried 
when,  with  an  air  of  careless  munificence,  he  paid  the 
overdue  rent  for  her  dwindling  lodging  business. 

"Never  mind,  Granny,"  he  assured  her,  "one  way 
and  another  I  owe  more  than  this  to  you.  Seven  years 
I've  been  here,  isn't  it?  How  many  nights  have  you 
helped  me  to  these  rooms — drunk — how  many  times 
been  patient  with  the  wild  crews  I  used  to  gather  here  ? 
And  the  Captain— it's  as  if  we'd  been  on  the  firing- 
line  together." 

But  in  her  cap  and  black  silk,  kneeling  at  Trinity 
Church  next  Sunday  Miss  Cranberry  prayed — as  for 
seven  years  she  had  done — for  his  unregenerate  soul. 

But  as  the  weeks  passed,  John  Arnold's  soul,  what- 


294  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

ever  its  hauntings,  gave  no  sign.  He  had  no  friends 
save  the  street  politicians,  the  petty  hangers-on  of  the 
city's  life,  and  these  he  evaded.  He  saw  Louis  Fer- 
reri  once  and  the  parting  left  the  slot-machine  man 
bewildered  as  it  did  the  others  whom,  with  a  sort  of 
insolence,  he  put  aside.  And  through  the  days  the 
great  loneliness  grew  on  him — the  lone  wolf  cut  off 
in  the  open  that  could  turn  neither  back  nor  onward. 

At  times  he  caught  Nella  staring  at  him,  it  seemed 
with  a  secret  fear  and  knowledge,  but  he  invited  no 
confidences.  He  looked  back  on  Grace  Wayne,  the 
days  of  his  strength  with  her,  with  an  inner  grim 
satire  at  the  grotesque  suggestion  of  himself,  the  re- 
pentant. And  the  renegade  was  more  lonely ;  he  was 
glad  when  Sammy  Jarbo  and  his  bride  returned  from 
the  honeymoon  which  had  been  unexpectedly  pro- 
longed at  a  country  ranch  near  Monterey. 

They  had  the  tang  of  the  country  on  them,  the 
brown,  dusty  sweetness  of  the  California  oak-hidden 
roadsides  winding  through  canons  to  the  sea.  Granny's 
hall  was  blocked  with  suit-cases,  parcels  and  wilted 
wild  flowers  that  morning,  and  in  it  all  Sammy  and 
'Mary  relating  the  great  story.  The  shop-girl  was  fired 
with  color  from  the  month  by  the  sea  and  under  the 
stillness  of  the  pines ;  she  laughed  out  of  pure  happi- 
ness at  all  their  friendlinesses ;  she  had  haphazard  gifts 
for  each ;  a  fern  on  a  bit  of  moldy  wood  for  Granny,  a 
string  of  cones  for  tKe  Cookhouse  waif,  and  eyes  shin- 
ing for  Arnold  when  he  took  her  hands.  Her  love- 
weeks  had  been  perfect.  She  was  no  piteous  drift  now 
of  the  department  stores,  the  victim  of  the  age's  gross 
commerce,  but  a  woman  achieving  destiny,  triumphing 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  295 

and  completing,  proving  the  puzzle  of  why  she  was  to 
live. 

Amid  this  clutter  of  arriving  the  poet  took  Arnold 
aside.  He  drew  from  his  pockets  scraps  of  bills,  dog- 
eared margins,  disemboweled  envelopes. 

"Nixy  on  the  epics  for  me,"  he  began;  "Listen  to 
this,  Ham.  I  was  sitting  on  the  beach  holding  Mary's 
hand  and  all  of  a  sudden  the  whole  business  hit  me  this 
way: 

"  'Never  a  bird's  song,  Sweetheart, 

In  the  gladsome  summer  morn — 
Never  a  dainty  blossom 

Whose  breath  on  the  breeze  is  borne ; 
Never  a  flower  at  morning 

Rustling  with  Heaven's  dew, 
Never  a  thing  of  beauty, 

But,  Sweetheart,  I  think  of  you/ 

"Ham,"  continued  the  poet  profoundly,  "I  got  it  out 
of  my  system  at  last,  and  it's  the  real  goods." 

"Sammy,"  said  his  friend,  "that's  putting  them  right 
over  the  plate !" 

Cranberry  tumultuously  seized  the  author's  hand 
and  swung  him  about.  "Lovely! — just  like  real 
poetry !" 

"Like  real  poetry?"  quavered  trie  poet  injuredly. 
"Thunder,  of  course  it's  real  poetry — did  you  think  it 
was  a  laundry  advertisement?" 

And  that  reminded  him — he  had  stopped  at  his  em- 
ployer's office  on  the  way  home  and  they  gave  him  a 
big  surprise.  He  was  promoted.  He  was  to  take* 


296  THE  DAY  OF  SOULS 

charge  of  the  Oakland  branch  of  the  concern — super- 
intend the  drivers,  and  have  twenty-five  dollars  a 
week!  "Wouldn't  that  freeze  you?"  said  the  poet, 
"me!" 

"It's  fine,"  answered  Arnold,  "only — well,  you'll  live 
in  Oakland,  won't  you  ?" 

"Yes.    I'll  rent  a  cottage — a  whole  yard  for  Mary.5* 

This  was  much  for  the  rattle-brained  poet.  Who 
would  ever  have  predicted  it?  But  Arnold  was  rather 
quiet.  He  had  depended  on  Sammy.  They  had  been 
great,  good  friends  in  days  before  friendships  and  the 
simpleness  of  things  had  been  blotted  by  the  town. 
Now  he  was  groping  about  for  a  friend's  hand,  and 
Sammy  would  not  be  near.  But  he  smiled. 

"All  right,  little  man.  It's  simply  great!  Only  I 
hate  to  have  you  leave  just  now." 

Cranberry's  had  thus  a  new  sensation,  but  the  old 
woman  wondered  who  would  take  the  small  rooms  the 
two  had  had.  When  Sammy  and  his  bride  departed, 
it  seemed  a  little  less  sunshiny  to  the  dwellers  on  the 
hill. 

The  usual  crowd  no  longer  dined  at  Sedaini's.  Fer- 
reri  did  not  come,  nor  the  silent  piano  player ;  and  with 
the  poet  and  his  wife  gone,  the  dreary  little  restaurant 
was  blank  enough.  Bernice  Murasky  came  once  and 
took  Nella  Free  to  the  Italian's.  The  Jewess  gave  a 
new  impression  of  restlessness,  but  not  of  her  former 
sullen  disparagement  of  her  surroundings.  She  looked 
the  other  girl  over  critically,  noting  with  direct  eyes 
the  little  things  that  marked  the  change  of  which  she 
knew  in  Nella's  circumstances — her  dressing,  her  sub- 


THE  DAY  OF  'SOULS  297 

dued  if  careless  tone.  "Where's  your  rings — that  big 
solitaire?"  she  asked  suddenly. 

"O,  I  don't  wear  them  mucK  now,"  evaded  Nella. 
"What's  the  use  ?  I  just  hang  around  the  old  woman's 
every  day." 

"I  should  think  you'd  go  crazy  after  all  you've  had ! 
I  went  to  see  Du  Barry  last  night — Louis  took  me." 

"Ain't  you  working?" 

"Not  steady.  I'm  going  to  study  type-writing — 
Louis's  going  to  get  me  a  job  with  the  slot-machine 
house." 

Bernice's  voice  had  the  greedy  little  lift  of  triumph 
with  which  women  erase  the  kindliness  from  one  an- 
other's hearts.  Nella  stirred — "I  ain't  seen  you  much 
lately." 

"No,  I've  been  pretty  busy — having  a  good  time." 
She  lifted  her  shoulders  with  a  laugh.  "I  should  think 
you'd  go  just  crazy  since  you  quit  Harry.  You  don't  eat 
at  any  of  the  swell  places  any  more,  do  you?  Louis 
and  me  was  at  Marchand's  last  night." 

The  other  girl  was  silently  breaking  Sedaini's  sour 
bread  to  bits  on  the  flimsy  cloth. 

"This  place  is  getting  fierce,"  continued  Miss  Mu- 
rasky.  "Come  down-town  Thursday  and  we'll  all  eat 
at  Green's — you  and  me  and  Louis." 

"I  can't." 

"Can't?" 

"O,  I'm  just  sticking  around,"  she  laughed,  "for  a 
while." 

"Kid,  you're  getting  little  lines  around  your  eyes. 
What's  Ham  doing?  Is  he  making  any  money?  The 


298  THE  DAY  OF,  SOULS 

bunch  at  Jack  Morgan's  said  he  was  down  and  out — 
he'd  have  to  quit  town  after  all  this  political  talk  about 
the  races  and  all.  Say,  Kid,  your  neck's  kind-a  thin. 
Ain't  you  well?" 

"O,  pretty  good !" 

"You  been  washing  dishes?  Look  at  that  little 
blister!" 

"I  burned  it  with  a  curling  iron.  Say,  you  seem  to 
be  getting  wise — is  the  Spreckels  Building  still  on 
Market  Street?" 

'Miss  Murasky  sat  back  idling  with  a  sunburst  at  her 
throat  at  which  Nella's  eyes  had  been  for  five  minutes 
— as  Miss  Murasky  intended  they  should.  She  minced 
over  the  dinner,  criticizing  each  course,  displaying 
wisdom  of  menus  and  methods;  finally  getting  her 
curiosity  back  to  the  other  girl's  diamonds.  "Gee,  why 
don't  you  wear  'em  ?  You'll  only  be  young  once,  Kid ; 
then  the  town'll  throw  you  hard." 

"I  know— only  I'm  kind  of  tired  of  them."  Nella 
rose.  "Let's  get  out — I  don't  want  this  coffee." 

Miss  Murasky  paid  the  bill.  The  pock-faced  pro- 
prietor smirked  and  bowed  at  the  door.  "My  las' 
wee-ek,"  said  he.  "I  clos-a  da  Saturday."  Sedaini's 
face  was  sad.  "No  beeziness — no  one  com-a  da  hill 
now.  OF  days  done — all  Japs  com-a  ove'  da  hill !" 

"It'll  be  a  lonesome  corner,"  said  Miss  Murasky, 
when  they  were  outside.  "I  should  think  you  would 
go  crazy  with  that  old  woman  and  the  kid.  Say,  did 
you  see  this  sunburst?  It  cost  four  hundred  dollars." 

"Sure,"  retorted  Nella,  on  the  steps,  but  she  did  not 
look  back,  and  the  other  girl  departed  with  a  sense  of 
the  incompleteness  of  victory.  Nella  went  to  the  lodg- 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  299 

ings.  At  the  table  in  the  hall  she  found  Arnold  and 
the  Captain,  the  old  man  bent  over  a  ragged  news- 
paper map  of  the  Philippines  on  which,  following 
innumerable  pin  pricks  that  marked  a  gallant  cam- 
paign, his  uncertain  eyes  were  fixed. 

"It  was  here,"  he  muttered,  "they  crossed  the  river, 
and  then  it  must  have  been  a  good  thirty  miles  to 
Bamboang  and  the  transport  would  be  slow,  would  it 
not,  sir?" 

"Yes,"  answered  the  younger  man,  "and  the  roads 
— well,  it  was  desperately  slow  among  the  rice  paddies, 
the  fellows  tired  and  feverish — " 

The  Captain  had  a  finger  on  a  ruddy  spot.  "Here 
the  reserves  were  held,  I  think — and  there  the  skir- 
mish line  was  thrown  forward.  It  must  have  been 
damned  rough,  sir,  on  those  hills  in  the  night !" 

The  girl  watched  them,  the  Captain  with  his  shaggy 
white  head,  the  young  man  grave  and  dark.  "And 
along  the  road  before  they  came  to  the  church,  was  a 
fence  of  bamboos.  It  was  a  devil  of  a  thing  to  take  in 
the  night,  sir,  when  the  charge  came !" 

Arnold  looked  wonderingly  at  the  old  man  folding 
his  map.  The  Captain  had  brooded  long,  evolving  a 
fine  theory  of  Bamboang;  he  had  talked  it  to  the 
lodgers,  to  the  hangers-on  at  Unc'  Pop's,  to  the  police- 
man down  the  block  and  to  wondering  strangers  in  the 
Square ;  it  was  thus  and  so,  with  military  terms  and 
great  manoeuvers — in  the  darkening  portals  of  his 
mind  the  brave,  red  picture  hung. 

The  veteran  put  away  his  worn  map.  He  could  see 
little,  but  he  divined  a  woman's  presence.  With  a  bow 


300  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

he  moved  off,  feeling  for  the  staircase,  and  as  Arnold 
went  to  help  him,  turned  with  his  grave  salute. 

"The  honor  of  the  service,  sir." 

"The  honor  of  the  service,  Captain." 

"Tell  me,"  muttered  Nella,  when  the  old  man  had 
gone,  "will  that  Larry  get  a  medal — and  when's  he 
coming  home  ?" 

"Next  month,  maybe — I  don't  know."  Arnold 
evaded  her  uncertainly. 

"He'll  be  a  great  man,  won't  he?"  the  girl  said. 
"How  in  the  world  can  we  put  him  up  in  this  hole? 
But  you  won't  be  here,  will  you  ?" 

"Will  you?" 

The  girl  laughed.  "O,  I  don't  know.  I  don't  know 
what  I'll  do!  This  is  a  queer  house.  I'd  like  to  see 
that  fellow,  though — that  Larry  who  saved  his  friend." 

"Look  here,  Nel,  don't  bother  about  Larry." 

"Why,  he  must  be  grand.  Ham,  why  do  you  stick 
about  the  town?  Why  don't  you  get  away  and  do 
something  like  that?  My  God,  if  I  was  a  man!" 

He  did  not  answer,  and  she  wondered,  idly  after  a 
time,  if  she  had  hurt  him ;  he  had  been  grave  enough 
of  late — she  wondered  if  his  thoughts  ever  went  back 
to  Sylvia  Spring,  if  he  knew  any  part  of  the  sorry 
ending  of  his  evil — and  if,  to  her,  he  would  ever  tell 
of  it 

Through  the  window  they  watched  the  moonlight 
on  the  bay  beyond  the  city.  In  the  silence  the  Cap- 
tain's voice  came  down  the  stairs,  telling  a  hero's  story 
to  the  dark.  The  Captain  had  a  grand  phrase  of  life, 
it  seemed  to  the  younger  man — it  rose  above  the  slang 
and  gabble. 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  301 

A  steamer's  wake  lay  through  the  shining  water  all 
palpitant  as  a  bird's  flight,  and  with  his  eyes  on  this 
Arnold's  mind  went  back  to  the  old  days — the  mist  on 
the  rice  fields,  the  jungle  plazas,  the  smoke  above  the 
nipa  nuts,  the  brown-throated  soldiers  with  the  dark- 
skinned  island  girls  along  the  moonlit  shores.  It  had 
been  youth's  care-free  adventure,  hot,  blue  seas,  treach- 
erous cities,  palm  lands;  and  he,  a  lover  of  the  wide 
world,  her  days  of  danger  and  her  magic  nights,  was 
now  hemmed  in,  broken,  held  here  by  a  shrill-voiced 
old  woman,  a  blind  man,  a  restless  girl  and  an  aban- 
doned child — here,  amid  the  kitchen  smells  and  the 
bed-making,  the  clutter  and  the  gossip. 

Well,  he  would  get  away — he  was  finding  himself — 
thank  God,  he  was  young  yet,  even  if  the  triumph  of 
youth  was  done.  He  would  go  away ;  there  was  noth- 
ing to  hold  him — nothing ! 

In  the  silence,  Nella  heard  him  stir  and  turn  to  her. 

"I  wonder,"  he  said,  "if  curious  little  cobwebs  get 
into  your  brain,  too  ?" 

"I  know — I  just  go  wild  with  nervousness  some- 
times!" 

But  he  knew  that  she  did  not  understand — and  never 
would. 

"Where's  your  lady  friend?"  Nella  queried  after  a 
while,  as  he  did  not  continue,  "the  religious  woman — 
she's  not  been  around  of  late,  has  she?" 

"No.  She  turned  me  away,  Nel."  He  sat  closer  to- 
ner and  went  abruptly  on  as  if  the  need  of  telling  was 
great  to  him.  "She  heard  that  old  story  about  me, 
somehow — about  the  girl,  you  know.  I  was  depending 
on  her,  and  she  broke  with  me  over  that.  Everybody 


302  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

believes  it,  Nel.  Even  Granny — I  can  see  it  sticking 
in  her  old  eyes — thinks  I  robbed  that  girl  and  sent  her 
home.  Well,  you  know  what  every  one  said  of  it." 

Nella  said  nothing.  She  had  never  heard  before 
this  tumult  in  his  voice — the  swift  rise  of  feeling.  It 
was  nothing  like  Hammy  Arnold  of  the  town,  but  per- 
haps the  dark  was  shielding  him. 

"Well,  I  can't  blame  them,"  he  went  on.  "There's 
been  nothing  about  me  but  what  looks  crooked.  But, 
Nel,  I  didn't — that  country  girl  went  back  to  the  North 
from  me  as  good  as  your  little  sister  is  at  Notre 
Dame."  The  stillness  troubled  him.  "I  didn't  harm 
her,"  he  went  on.  "Nel?" 

"What?"  she  muttered. 

"Do  you  believe  it?" 

"No." 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  you  told  me  it  isn't  true." 

"Why,  I  might  lie  to  you." 

"Why  should  you  lie  to  me  ?  What  difference  could 
it  make  to  me  whether  you  were  straight  or  not?  I 
just  believe  you — that's  all." 

His  mood  was  lightening;  not  in  joy,  but  as  a  man 
adrift  on  the  ocean  watches  the  coming  day,  glad  at 
least  that  it  is  not  dark. 

"No,"  he  muttered,  "we  don't  need  shams,  Nel— 
you  and  I.  We  know — we've  faced  it  all.  I've  come 
to  find  how  far  I've  drifted — and  to  wonder  what's 
beyond  it." 

"Sometimes  I  wonder,"  she  answered  simply;  "but 
it  puzzles  so.  I'd  go  crazy  if  I  tried  to  find  a  reason 
for  anything.  But,  Kid,  you've  changed."  She 


THE  DAY   OF   SOULS  303 

turned  to  him  intently.    "Seems  like  things  hurt  you 
so  now." 

He  stirred  at  her  guess ;  not  to  himself,  all  his  life 
long,  had  he  admitted  that  beneath  his  mordant  play 
lay  acute  sensitiveness,  a  receptivity,  a  power  of  feeling 
hurts.  These  it  had  been  needful  from  the  first  to 
deny  and  jest  with — he  had  told  himself  long  years 
ago  that  he  had  succeeded  well. 

"Changed?"  he  smiled.  "I'm  tired.  No  one  thing 
has  led  me  to  it  but  just  everything.  And,  Nel,  I  want 
to  go — to  break  with  things.  You  can't  see,  but  seems 
that  life  lays  before  us,  waiting  like  a  black  rat.  And 
I  want  it  different  somehow." 

He  wondered  if  she  knew  the  hollowness  he  felt,  his 
crippled  will,  his  confused  good ;  it  struck  him  as  odd 
that  he  should  try  to  guess  at  Nella's  mind — he  who 
had  evaded  her  with  gentle  indifference  the  years  of 
their  friendship,  who  had  accepted  her  always  for  what 
she  was,  as  he  had  done  all  his  world.  "I  want  it 
different,"  he  went  on.  "Sometimes  I  think  a  woman 
could  have  made  me — it  takes  a  good  woman  to  hold 
a  man  out  of  what  I've  lived.  But  I  had  my  chance — 
two  chances.  I've  never  told  you,  Nel,  but  there  was 
Sylvia,  and  then  Miss  Wayne.  You  don't  know  what 
they  meant  for  just  a  glimpse  of  what  I  might  have 
been.  I  can't  forget — that's  why  I'm  going  away.  To 
make  myself  what  they  would  have  liked  in  a  man — 
that's  why  I'm  going." 

She  had  risen  in  the  dark  with  his  recital,  the  con- 
fused vision  that  he  tried  to  have  her  see,  groping  to 
make  her  know.  He  heard  now  a  glass  clink  on  the 
sideboard  as  she  set  the  decanter  back.  Then  she  filled 


304  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

the  glass  again,  with  a  smothered  cry.  He  rose  and 
caught  her  hand,  so  that  the  liquor  spilled  down  their 
sleeves  and  on  the  marble  of  the  sideboard. 

"Go  slow,  Nel,"  he  said.  "Here— half  of  that!" 
But,  eluding  him,  she  drank  the  whisky  with  a  sob, 
and  wrenching  free,  left  him  brushing  the  stuff  from 
his  coat. 

Nella  went  swiftly  to  the  kitchen.  Miss  Cranberry 
was  down  the  block  at  Wilson's  delicatessen  and  the 
child  was  asleep.  In  the  dingy  hall  the  gas  burned 
dim. 

The  girl,  clinging  to  the  door-frame,  saw  the  sodden 
window  opening  on  the  shaft,  the  cheap  lace  curtains, 
the  dishes  piled  in  the  sink,  the  dirty  clothes  on  a  chair. 
The  cooking  smells  assailed  her;  the  window-panes 
were  grimy ;  from  the  gloom  beyond,  fearsome  shapes 
were  pictured.  A  desperate  fear  clutched  her  heart. 
Yes,  she  would  come  to  this — a  parrot,  a  dying  hya- 
cinth in  a  lodging-house  kitchen  window;  her  hands 
huge,  knotted ;  her  hair  gray,  frowsy ;  her  back  bent — 
toiling  over  the  stairs  of  days  with  great  swashes  of 
water,  crawling  out  to  a  mean  purchase  of  tea  and 
soup;  at  night  lighting  the  dim  hall  jets  under  the 
hideous  wall-paper  for  drunken  lodgers,  washing  her 
dishes  from  a  lonely  meal — to  this — this,  she  would 
come!  The  years  would  crush  her — all  that  brief 
youth  gave,  all  her  pitiful  life  held ;  her  beauty  faded, 
her  vivacity  dulled,  her  pulses  yellowed — she  possessed 
one  thing — only  one  thing — and  that  she  was  offering, 
laying  down  uselessly  in  this  brute  dirt  and  squalor. 

Yes,  like  a  black  rat  it  would  come. 

'Already  she  was  feeling  old;  and  raising  up  her 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  305 

white  hands  she  shrieked  fearfully  in  the  silence — 
shrieked  and  reeled,  falling  over  the  table,  so  that  the 
young  man  rushing  from  the  hall,  seized  her,  moaning, 
and  dragged  her  from  the  kitchen. 

"What's  the  matter? — are  you  hurt?"  he  cried,  and 
she  could  only  sob  and  moan,  sinking  lower,  until,  lift- 
ing her,  he  carried  the  limp  form  to  his  rooms,  and 
laid  her  on  the  couch. 

"What  is  it,  Nel?    What's  the  matter?" 

"I  don't  know — I  don't  know !"  she  shuddered,  clos- 
ing her  blue  eyes  tight,  clenching  her  hands.  "O,  my 
God— let  me  go !" 

But,  kneeling,  he  held  her  wrists  tighter,  and  she 
had  to  turn  to  brush  her  wet  eyes  against  his  coat. 

"Never  mind — be  still,"  he  murmured;  but  getting 
an  arm  loose  she  raised  it  about  his  neck  and  drew 
him  closer  until  her  full,  hot  lips  were  against  his 
cheek. 

"Don't  you  care !"  she  whispered,  in  her  sobs.  "It 
don't  mean  anything,  Hatnmy — from  me!  Only  I'm 
adrift  now — all  adrift !" 

"Never  mind,"  he  repeated,  holding  her  closer  on  the 
couch.  "Don't  you  mind — somehow,  Nel,  you're 
brave." 

"I'm  just  a  leaf  in  the  storm,"  she  whispered,  with 
the  tug  and  falter  at  her  swelling  throat — "but  you  go 
on — you  got  to  go  on !  I  keep  thinking  of  the  Cap- 
tain's Larry  with  his  honor  medal  for  saving  that  other 
fellow.  You  got  to  be  as  fine  as  he — it  would  be  grand 
to  think  of  you  that  way !" 


CHAPTER  XXI 

Arnold  came  on  Fred  Weldy  at  the  Star  printing 
house  in  the  closing  days  of  the  legislative  session. 
The  German  greeted  him  with  an  awkward  laugh, 
holding  out  a  newspaper.  He  pointed  to  his  picture 
among  a  row,  the  committee  of  investigation,  and  the 
members  accused  of  accepting  bribes  in  the  racing 
scandal. 

"Lillie  says  I  look  like  a  'con/  "  said  the  printer, 
"but  I  don't  feel  that  way.  I  may  be  a  dead  one  in 
politics,  Ham,  but  I  feel  right!" 

"That's  a  whole  lot,"  laughed  Ham.  "I  expect  it'll 
hurt  your  business  ?" 

"Sure,"  mused  Fred.  "My  partner's  scared  to 
death,  but  Lillie  says  to  buck  it  out.  I'm  the  worst 
hated  man  at  Sacramento.  I  never  knew  that  every- 
body jumps  a  man  as  soon  as  he  tries  to  be  square. 
Shucks,  what  a  row  we  raised,  Ham,  or  you  kicked 
me  on  to  it !  And  I  guess  you're  dead — you  couldn't 
referee  a  dog  fight  in  this  town  now  I" 

"I  know."  Arnold  looked  genially  at  him.  "Fred, 
can  you  get  me  a  job  ?" 

Fred  stared  at  the  immaculate  Ham.  Never  had  he 
heard  of  Ham  working.  He  hesitated ;  the  matter  was 
painful  to  his  simple  loyalty;  he  floundered  and 
choked.  "Work?  I  know  a  big  printing  shop  that 
wants  a  hustler" — he  took  a  card  from  his  case — "but 
you?  Work? — why  you  funny  old  skate !" 

306 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  307 

Arnold  rubbed  his  dark  chin  and  laughed.  "I'll  take 
this,  Fred — and  thank  you.  No  more  velvet  for  me — 
I'm  down  and  out,  but  the  only  thing  in  a  race  is  the 
finish!  I'm  broke,  and  Nel's  broke,  and  Granny's 
broke — even  the  blue  pup's  busted !" 

There  was,  indeed,  sore  need  at  the  old  house  on  the 
hill,  for,  since  the  closing  of  the  Family  Liquor  Store 
and  Sedaini's,  most  of  Cranberry's  pitiful  revenues 
from  lodgers  had  gone.  No  more  came  the  shawled 
wives  and  bareheaded  girls  to  the  grocery,  nor  the 
clerklings  and  mechanics  to  sit  at  Unc'  Pop's  back  bar. 
He  had  gone  across  the  bay  to  live  with  Fred  Weldy, 
and  Sedaini  had  been  swallowed  up  in  the  Latin  quar- 
ter. The  corner  came  to  be  a  house  like  Always  Sun- 
day, the  mean  little  windows  curtained,  the  padlock  on 
the  grocer's  door,  the  sedate  cleanness  of  the  stairs 
leading  above  to  Cranberry's  lodgings  and  the  silence 
in  Happy  Alley  where  once  all  the  kids  had  played. 
The  block  below  was  deluged  in  the  rising  tide  of  ori- 
ental life ;  Japanese  students,  shoemakers,  employment 
agencies  swarmed,  and  the  renting  agent  told  Miss 
Cranberry  that  the  corner  could  not  long  resist  the  in- 
vasion. 

As  the  days  passed,  Arnold's  idea  of  leaving  town 
grew  vague.  At  the  end  of  the  first  week  he  had  six 
dollars  and  fifty  cents  from  his  soliciting,  and  sitting 
on  the  balcony  rail  with  Nella  in  the  cool,  shifty  sum- 
mer evening,  they  had  laughed.  Nella's  eyes  were 
heavy,  she  was  dulled  by  the  close  rooms ;  she  had  lost 
her  alluring  luxuriousness,  bespeaking  now  the  lodg- 
ing-house woman. 

"Who  sewed  my  sleeve  ?"  Arnold  asked,  holding  his 


3o8  THE   DAY   OF    SOULS 

smoking  jacket  to  the  light.  It  was  a  bad  job,  indeed ; 
the  stiches  long  and  slovenly. 

"Pretty  fierce,  isn't  it?"  the  girl  muttered,  and  then 
defiantly :  "I  get  wild  with  nothing  to  do.  I  wonder 
why  I  stick  around  here!  I  just  have  to  sweep  or  do 
something,  Ham." 

He  looked  at  the  lamentable  stitches;  caught  one, 
and  unraveled  the  seam.  Nella  snatched  at  the  sleeve. 
"Of  course  it  wouldn't  stay — I  never  sewed  anything 
before.  But  you're  away  all  day,  and  you  look  awful 
tired,  Ham,  in  that  ragged  coat  when  you  get  home. 
Take  it  off— I'll  try  again !" 

"It  is  rather  bad,"  said  he.  "But  I'm  no  captain  of 
industry  myself.  In  fact,  I'm  a  good  deal  of  a  shine 
when  it  comes  to  business,  Nel.  I  can  talk  the  money 
out  of  men's  pockets  at  the  track,  but  I  can't  go  into 
their  offices  and  face  them,  trying  to  sell  them  some- 
thing they  don't  want.  I  never  felt  so  cheap  in  my  life, 
and  that's  queer,  seeing  that  I'm  giving  them  a  straight 
deal." 

"Well,  you  keep  on,"  she  retorted,  "keep  on!" 

He  went  forth  to  another  week  of  hopeful  but  dis- 
piriting effort.  Arnold  was  indeed  a  failure  at  busi- 
ness ;  there  was  no  place  for  him  in  the  keen  thrift  of 
traffic.  By  Saturday  his  commissions  amounted  to 
five  dollars  and  seventy-five  cents.  He  showed  the 
money  to  Nella  and  they  both  forced  a  laugh. 

"I  wore  out  a  pair  of  eight-dollar  shoes  getting  five 
dollars'  worth  of  business,"  he  told  the  girl  with  a 
humor  of  dismal  exaggeration.  "It's  bad." 

"Never  mind,"  she  retorted.  "You  tried— it's  just 
grand !" 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  309 

But  the  next  night  she  met  him  with  a  curious  dif- 
fidence in  her  careless  eyes. 

"I  sold  the  little  ring — I  got  forty  dollars — the  land- 
lord's agent  was  here  to-day.  Now,  what'll  we  tell  the 
old  lady  ? — that  we  won  it  at  the  races  ?" 

"Tell  her  the  truth— that  we're  broke/'  he  replied ; 
but  the  girl  demurred,  and  lied  indolently  to  Miss 
Cranberry  when  she  paid  the  rent  on  the  first  of  the 
month. 

Nella  had  settled  down  to  a  strange  content  at  Gran- 
berry's,  restless  and  idle  as  she  was.  She  seemed 
waiting  for  the  turn  of  fortune,  careless,  vacant  of 
mind  in  her  droll  humors.  The  old  lady  was  perplexed 
and  doubting — but  who  was  to  judge  and  who  con- 
demn? She  puzzled  her  weary  old  brain  and  then 
passed  it  by.  She  had  done  her  part:  she  had  cared 
for  the  fatherless,  she  had  been  patient  with  the 
drunken  men,  and  given  refuge  to  erring  women. 
Surely  her  God  would  know.  At  any  rate  her  path 
was  easier  for  the  doing. 

Arnold  quit  the  printing  firm  for  a  clerkship  in  the 
water  company's  office  which  paid  fifteen  dollars  a 
week,  and  came  home  in  high  feather  one  night,  his 
arms  filled  with  groceries. 

"What's  the  use  of  being  rich  when  you  can  have 
everything  you  want?"  he  cried  cheerfully,  and  the 
sharp-eyed  old  woman  and  the  heavy-lidded  girl 
smiled.  Hammy  was  hard  to  understand  these  days  of 
his  labor.  His  nights  were  spent  with  the  Captain, 
and  they  discussed  the  wars  in  Samar.  The  four  of 
them  would  gather  about  the  table,  when  the  cloth  was 
cleared,  and  over  the  ragged  map  of  the  islands  the 


3io  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

dissembler  built  up  tHe  story  of  Bamboang.  The  Cap- 
tain listened  sagely,  his  fingers  trembling  with  palsy, 
his  soul  aflame  with  brave  artifices  and  phrases.  At 
times,  with  easy  mendacity,  Arnold  brought  what  pur- 
ported to  be  telegrams  and  clippings,  and  the  blinded 
veteran  listened  with  many  oracular  throat-clearings 
and  wise  corrections. 

But  one  night  after  he  had  gone  to  bed,  his  temples 
throbbing  with  a  charge  of  the  troop,  which  the  liar 
had  evolved  in  the  great  campaign,  the  three  looked 
after  him  in  a  sort  of  fear. 

"He's  not  so  well,"  muttered  Granny.  "Suppose  the 
troop-ship  didn't  come  ?" 

"If  it  did,"  retorted  Arnold,  "things  would  be 
worse." 

Nella  stared  at  him.  "What  do  you  mean  ?  Won't 
we  all  be  glad  to  see  his  boy — a  lieutenant  with  yellow 
stripes  and  a  medal  of  honor  ?" 

Arnold  looked  back  at  her  startled;  he  had  not 
dreamed  that  the  deceit  had  grown  so  big.  "Why, 
Nel,"  he  muttered,  "you— you— " 

She  laughed.  "Seems  like  I  know  this  Larry!  I 
dream  of  him.  Wouldn't  it  be  fine  to  love  a  man  like 
that?  I've  listened  to  you  and  this  crazy  old  soldier 
talk,  and  I  can  just  imagine  him.  Hammy,  when's  he 
really  coming  home  ?" 

The  young  man  looked  again  at  her — what  splendid 
vision  was  he  building  also,  in  this  careless  soul,  with 
his  great  campaign,  his  triumphs  and  heroic  deeds  of 
the  troopers  over-sea?  "Nel,  don't  you  mind,"  he 
said.  "Next  month,  I  suppose,  he'll  come." 

'Meantime  he  was  trying  lamentably  to  be  a  clerk  in 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  311 

the  water  office,  though  his  penmanship  was  abomi- 
nable, his  arithmetic  a  farce.  The  second  week  the 
secretary  looked  over  his  glasses  and  said : 

"Arnold,  are  you  the  chap  who  was  before  the  grand 
jury  last  fall?" 

"Yes,"  answered  the  clerk. 

"Indeed?"  the  other  smiled. 

The  new  employee  worked  long  hours,  sometimes 
collecting  about  the  city  in  the  dusty  afternoons  of  the 
cool  summer.  He  met  old  familiars  of  the  town  with 
enigmatic  smiles  or  jesting  indifference,  but  avoided 
them  where  he  could.  And  the  harlequin  street  forgot 
the  renegade  for  other  diversions.  He  was  not  one 
given  to  conscience ;  to  himself  he  said  he  was  tired — 
no  more.  Of  Grace  Wayne,  as  of  Sylvia,  he  thought 
with  curious  weighings  of  impersonal  sentiment.  "No 
matter  now,"  he  would  muse.  "The  card's  wiped 
clean — everything's  got  to  be  new!" 

Nella  came  one  evening,  to  find  Miss  Cranberry  in 
the  hall  barricaded  with  ancient  hat-boxes,  lavender- 
smelling  cases  and  clothes  flung  from  closet  and  attic, 
agog  with  excited  energy,  dashing  orders  and  protests. 
A  miracle  had  come — indeed ! 

A  wandering  brother,  sojourner  of  North  sheep 
camps,  unheard  of  for  fifteen  years,  had  broken  his 
leg.  He  wrote  from  Victoria,  and  sent  Granny  fifty 
dollars,  and  would  she  come  succor  the  luckless  limb  ? 
Doubt,  pleasure,  dismay  seized  the  old  lady.  For  forty 
years  she  had  not  crossed  San  Francisco  Bay.  She 
was  aghast  at  the  adventure,  then  her  kind  heart  re- 
bounded to  the  lamentable  brother.  Yes,  she  would 
go — but  the  house?  Mr.  Hammy's  laundry,  the  Cap- 


3i2  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

tain's  breakfast,  the  Cookhouse  Kid?  She  looked 
askance  at  Nella's  assurance — a  girl  whose  idea  of 
keeping  house  was  to  wash  a  handkerchief  and  stick  it 
to  dry  on  the  window!  But  her  telegram — she  must 
get  to  the  brother  at  once. 

The  neighborhood  women — chiefly  Mis'  Wilson, 
who  kept  the  delicatessen — sniffed  at  Granny's  confid- 
ing the  lodgings  to  Nella.  They  retired  with  head- 
shakings,  and  this  decided  Granny  at  once.  All  her 
fervent  loyalty  to  her  own  flashed  out:  Nella  it 
would  be ! 

But  she  had  a  prodigality  of  cares  to  leave  behind. 
"Now,  dearie,  will  you  remember  this?"  she  would 
cackle  over  her  packing — the  milk  bottle  must  be  on 
the  stairs,  the  scavenger  man  paid  Wednesdays  only, 
and  the  side  rooms  beyond  the  portieres  were  to  rent 
for  two  dollars  and  fifty  cents  the  week — in  the  rear, 
for  two — an  infinity  of  directions.  She  paused  once 
to  bring  forth  the  Japanese  student's  stunted  hyacinth 
which  should  have  bloomed  months  ago. 

"It's  coming,  dearie,"  said  the  old  woman,  "slow, 
but  see  here,  and  there,  pushing  bravely  through  the 
mold !  I'm  going  to  leave  it  with  you,  and  if  I'm  not 
back  by  Mr.  Hammy's  birthday  on  the  twenty-sixth, 
you  must  give  it  to  him — from  me.  Surely  it  will  be 
in  bloom  then !" 

Arnold  found  them  in  this  gabble  and  throwing- 
about ;  the  girl  sitting  on  a  trunk ;  the  old  woman,  all 
her  intense  nature  at  once  rebounding  at  this  adven- 
ture, to  her  ears  in  clothes  and  stuffy  accumulations. 
He  was  at  once  assailed  with  perplexities — the  whole 
scheme  of  living  for  the  four  weeks  Miss  Cranberry 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  313 

would  be  gone  was  dinned  into  him — rote  and  rule 
such  as  she  had  evolved  through  the  adjustments  of 
an  intricate  poverty  of  fifty  years. 

Even  then,  it  was  with  doubts  that  Miss  Granny  de- 
parted the  next  day  on  the  Victoria  steamer.  Arnold 
saw  her  off,  seated  in  her  state-room,  her  black  silk 
mitts  folded  in  her  lap  and  the  place  reeking  lavender. 

Arnold  went  directly  to  his  work  of  collecting  the 
water  rates  after  Miss  Granny  put  to  sea;  it  was  late 
when  he  came  up  the  Washington  Street  hill.  Nella 
was  in  the  tiny  kitchen,  which  was  a  haze  of  blue 
smoke,  her  sleeves  rolled  up,  a  gay  turban  on  her  red- 
brown  hair.  The  young  man  watched  her  for  a  mo- 
ment before  he  came  to  speak  cheerily.  She  looked  up 
flushed,  pleased,  but  a  trifle  anxious. 

"The  old  fellow  up-stairs  isn't  coming  down.  He 
don't  feel  well,  and  he's  asking  why  the  papers  don't 
have  any  news  about  that  battle.  Let's  go  up  to  see 
him  after  dinner — he  only  wants  some  tea." 

With  the  flaxen-haired  child  the  two  sat  at  the 
kitchen  table.  The  meat  was  overdone,  the  canned 
tomatoes  thin,  the  macaroni  soggy.  A  curious  con- 
straint was  on  the  group,  though  Arnold  praised  the 
cooking  extravagantly,  causing  Nella  to  laugh,  silly 
over  his  whims.  But  they  missed  the  old  woman's 
shrewd  gossip ;  it  was  as  if  a  place  were  vacant  on  the 
firing-line ;  the  forlorn  outposts  drew  closer,  as  though 
they  stood  in  the  dark,  cheering  one  another  through 
doubtful  hazards. 

The  young  man  looked  gravely  at  the  girl  across  the 
table,  at  the  waif  by  her  side,  at  the  dim  gas  above  in 
Granny's  kitchen. 


3i4  THE  DAY  OF  SOULS 

"Nella,  you  must  get  out  of  doors  more — you're 
losing  your  color.  You  must  be  in  the  air,  and  not 
have  this  dismal  old  place  on  your  mind." 

"Where'll  I  go?"  she  laughed.  "I  can't  go  around 
town,  and  I'd  be  frightfully  lonesome  at  the  park." 

"Haven't  you  any  friends — girl  friends,  some- 
where?" 

"No.  You  know  how  women  are!  I  got  to  stay 
away.  I'm  all  right — this  place'll  keep  me  busy.  I 
feel  more  contented,  some  way  or  other." 

"Sunday  you  take  the  kid  and  go  across  the  bay  to 
Sammy's — you  need  the  outdoors,  Nel." 

"No — I  don't  want  to.  The  country  makes  me 
lonely,  and  the  old  man's  too  sick.  When'll  his  boy 
come  back  ?" 

"I  don't  know,"  muttered  the  dissembler,  discon- 
certed. 

"I  fixed  a  room  for  him — the  big  east  one  looking 
over  the  harbor  where  he  can  see  the  transports  ofiE 
the  Mission.  Do  you  really  think  he'll  care  to  live 
with  us — an  officer  with  a  medal?  The  east  room's 
pretty.  I  put  in  the  best  rugs  and  your  lounging  chair 
for  him." 

"Nel!"  he  retorted,  startled— "for  Larry  Calhoun!" 

"It's  fine,"  she  answered  gaily.  "I  wonder  what 
he'll  think  of  'me.  Can't  you  hear  a  word  from  him? 
There's  a  letter  come  for  you." 

Arnold  opened  the  envelope  she  gave  him.  It  was 
brief.  His  services  with  the  water  corporation  would 
not  be  required  after  the  coming  Saturday  night. 
With  a  smile  he  handed  the  type-written  sheet  to  the 
girl  and  watched  her  face  harden  beneath  its  import. 


THE  DAY   OF   SOULS  315 

"Damn  them!"  she  muttered,  her  eyes  bright  on 
him. 

"Don't  you  care,"  he  put  in  slowly.  "I  was  looking 
for  something  of  the  kind.  You  see,  the  record  I've 
got  around  town  kills  me  with  the  big  business  houses. 
There's  nothing  said,  but  it's  turned  me  away  from  a 
dozen  situations,  Nel.  The  company  just  discovered 
that  I  am  the  same  Arnold  who  was  mixed  in  the 
grand  jury  business — that's  all.  I'm  a  crook  with 
them — that's  merely  a  reasonable  view  of  it." 

"I  know !  Well,  no  matter — what  are  you  going  to 
do  now  ?" 

"I'll  have  to  find  something.  And  I've  pretty  well 
gone  through  the  white-handed  jobs.  It  isn't  easy  to 
find  things  I  can  do." 

"I  thought  you  were  going  to  leave  town  ?" 

He  looked  uneasily  at  her,  at  the  child,  at  the  win- 
dow of  Cranberry's  kitchen.  "Yes.  But — well,  I 
don't  know.  You  see — "  he  stopped  in  some  confusion 
before  the  intent  of  her  eyes — "O,  we'll  get  along 
all  right.  They  can't  keep  me  out  of  everything,  you 
know." 

"You  said  you  were  going  to  the  hills  ?" 

"I  am." 

"Look  here,"  she  retorted,  "y°u  go,  Hammy.  Don't 
let  us  be  a  drag  on  you.  We  can  all  get  on." 

"The  house  can't  run  without  money." 

"O,  money !  Money  is  easy.  Here's  these  diamonds 
and  my  furs — they  don't  mean  much,  somehow,  any 
more." 

"No — no.  I  thought  I'd  sell  the  old  piano  and  some 
of  that  china  in  my  rooms." 


3i6  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

"Your  mother's  pretty  things  ?  No ;  we  can  get  on 
fine." 

She  rose  and  clattered  the  dishes  with  a  laugh,  push- 
ing back  her  reddish  hair  which  had  tumbled  about 
her  brow.  "Money — /  can  always  get  money — don't 
ever  bother  about  that !  You  go  to  the  country  and  be 
square." 

"Go?  Kid,  did  you  ever  think  how  alone  we  are? 
You  and  I  up  on  this  hilltop  with  a  blind  old  man  and 
a  baby?" 

She  laughed  in  some  confusion  and  hurried  about 
the  work. 

After  a  while,  in  the  silence,  Arnold  went  to  the 
attic  rooms  above,  under  the  ancient  gable. 

The  old  man  was  asleep,  the  moonlight,  through  the 
window,  aslant  on  his  bushy  brows,  the  scar  above 
his  eyes.  The  younger  watched  him  a  while  intently ; 
a  wistfulness  had  come  to  the  veteran's  face — this 
waiting  was  surely  long,  the  ending  vague ;  and  slowly 
the  light  was  darkening.  Only  one  thing  stood  in  a 
splendor  to  the  Captain's  soul,  and  that  was  how  the 
young  fighting  fellows  had  held  the  line  at  Bamboang. 
The  other  man  had  fed  the  story  to  him  piece  by 
piece ;  the  veteran  could  describe  it  vividly  as  though 
he,  the  field  marshal,  had  stood  on  the  heights  and 
directed  the  action.  But  it  had  become  a  thing  that 
was  sapping  the  imagination  of  the  creator;  Arnold 
felt  at  times  that  his  soul  was  eaten  hollow  with  the 
deceit — a  mere  shell  of  dreams. 

Arnold  went  back  to  his  apartments.  Fred  Weldy 
had  asked  him  to  go  to  the  theater  to-night.  He  came 
on  Nella  in  the  kitchen,  and  watched  her,  still  the  rest- 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  317 

less  and  good-humored.  Yet  her  youth  was  going — 
the  gilded  halls  of  light  and  laughter,  of  great  imagi- 
nations, had  darkened ;  they  had  become  a  hovel  that 
encompassed  her. 

The  black  rat  drew  nearer.  But  rarely  would  she 
see ;  to  her  had  been  given  lightness. 

The  man  looked  down  on  her.  The  motherless  child 
had  tramped  in  a  flooded  gutter  that  evening ;  its  feet 
were  wet  and  the  girl  had  only  now  discovered  it.  The 
dim  hall  of  the  lodgings  was  still ;  there  had  been  for 
three  days  no  roomers  except  themselves.  Arnold 
looked  at  his  watch — he  was  to  meet  Weldy  at  the 
Columbia  at  eight  o'clock.  But  he  stayed  irresolutely. 

"Nel,  I  haven't  touched  the  piano  for  seven  months 
— I've  hardly  sung  a  note.  You  know  my  voice  failed 
long  ago.  But  suppose  we  get  some  music  out  of  that 
dusty  corner  and  just  try  it." 

She  looked  up  with  a  laugh,  always  her  aimless, 
good-humored  retort  to  the  world — but  he  saw  the 
pleased  gratefulness  in  her  eyes. 

He  went  to  his  room  and  lit  the  lamp,  which  cast  it 
into  warm  shadows ;  the  marble  Marquise  on  the  piano 
vivid,  white  in  the  gloom.  He  searched  among  the 
music  and  went  again  to  the  hall  seeking  the  girl. 

She  was  still  with  the  child,  taking  off  its  shoes  and 
kneeling  to  wring  the  stockings,  the  dirty  water  drip- 
ping through  the  diamonds  on  her  fingers. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

The  following  week  Arnold  found  a  place  on  the 
water  front,  as  tally  clerk  for  a  shipping  firm.  It 
would  pay  him  eighteen  dollars  a  week,  which  now,  in 
the  needs  of  the  house  on  the  hill,  seemed  munificent. 

He  came  away  under  instructions  to  report  the  fol- 
lowing day,  and  oversee  the  checking  of  produce  as  it 
arrived  on  the  boats  from  up  the  Sacramento  River. 
It  was  to  be  long  night  hours  on  the  wharves,  but  he 
told  Nella  Free  of  his  luck  with  enthusiasm — he  had 
been  about  the  town  a  week  looking  for  work  in  vain. 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life,  Arnold  had  come  face 
to  face  with  the  hostile  social  aspect — the  complacent 
impudence  of  rebuff — which  the  suppliant  for  bread- 
labor  ever  meets  from  the  vestigial  tyranny  of  men's 
minds,  for  the  dignity  of  labor  is  but  a  snug  and  easy 
platitude.  The  man  who  possesses  may  glut  the  cru- 
elty the  dumb  races  learned  under  the  whips  of  forgot- 
ten kings  on  the  man  who  must  ask — the  same  fat 
soft  hand  that  gestured  to  the  slaves  beaten  to  death  as 
they  shoulder-strained  at  Cheops'  blocks  waves  com- 
placently at  the  bread-needy  to-day. 

Arnold,  in  his  need  and  inutility,  reaped  to  the  full  his 
idle  sowing — he  had  no  weapons  for  these  new  hazards 
of  fortune  against  which  he  now  tried  to  make  head- 
;way.  The  town,  it  seemed,  within  the  month  had  for- 
gotten him.  He  was  now  facing  its  indifference  and 

318 


THE  DAY  OK  SOULS  319 

suspicion  with  nothing  but  his  new  simplicity  of  mo- 
tive, and  he  saw  how  he  had  builded  on  nothing, 
had  nothing,  gained  nothing.  The  friends  of  his  other 
life  could  give  him  no  aid  in  this;  references  would 
have  damned  him  where  they  would  not  provoke  a 
smile.  But  he  kept  on  with  the  troubled  seeking;  at 
the  house  he  had  a  droll  cheerfulness,  so  that  night 
after  night  they  came  to  watch  for  him,  the  waif  ex- 
pectant near  the  head  of  the  stairs,  the  Captain  at  the 
table,  his  hands  crossed  on  the  head  of  his  cane,  and 
the  girl  turning  her  face  from  the  murk  of  the  kitchen, 
with  her  idle  laugh. 

The  old  man  disconcerted  him  one  night;  a  hand 
trembling  with  palsy  laid  a  smudged  newspaper  by 
his  plate.  "On  the  thirtieth  they  will  be  here,"  said 
the  Captain  calmly.  "The  Sherman  sails  this  week 
from  Manila,,  the  Third  Battalion  is  on  board — my 
son's  troop  is  coming  home." 

The  younger  man  stared  at  the  paper.  Nella  listened 
with  curious  absorption.  It  was  a  brief  cablegram 
among  the  despatches  to  the  war  department ;  the  Sec- 
ond Cavalry  was  returning.  The  veteran  was  quiet  in 
his  faith  and  surety. 

"Lawrence  is  coming  on  the  thirtieth,"  he  repeated. 

The  Captain  had  been  wistful  these  many  weeks,  pa- 
tient with  his  brief  questionings,  eager  in  his  recon- 
structions of  the  campaign ;  but  wistful  for  a  voice  out 
of  the  silence.  Now  it  had  come. 

"A  stranger  in  the  park  gave  me  the  paper,"  he 
added.  "I  could  not  see  it,  sir — my  eyes  are  not  so 
well.  But  they're  coming  home — those  young  fellows 
who  did  so  well  at  Bamboang." 


320  THE  DAY   OF   SOULS 

"And  he'll  be  a  lieutenant?"  queried  Nella.  "Do 
you  suppose  he'll  be  in  the  parade  up  Market  Street, 
like  they  always  have — with  a  band  ?" 

The  Captain  nodded,  pleased,  but  rebuking.  This 
was  nothing — this  woman's  way  of  seeing  things.  Ar- 
nold went  to  his  rooms  leaving  them  discussing  the 
matter,  the  Captain  lofty,  the  girl  in  absorption,  chat- 
tering, and  then  in  fitful  dreams.  Alone,  the  graceless 
liar  studied  the  matter.  He  had  created  a  heroic 
presence  in  their  minds — and  now  he  faced  an  inex- 
plicable dilemma. 

What  would  he  tell  the  Captain  when  the  troop-ship 
was  in  the  bay — what  evasion  offer  Nella  when  the 
squadron  rode  the  street  ? 

After  the  old  man  had  gone  to  bed,  Arnold  went  to 
find  Nella  at  her  dishes.  She  was  scarcely  pleased  at 
his  telling  of  the  position  he  had  found. 

"That's  hard  business,  Hammy.  It's  a  come-down 
for  a  fellow  like  you.  I  wish  you  could  get  away  as 
you  wanted  to  do.  See  here — when  are  you  going  ?" 

"Nel,  you  know  I  can't  quit  you  and  the  Captain — 
and  the  old  house — " 

"But  you'd  better."  Her  blue  eyes  witK  their  care- 
less quizzing  fell  from  his  face.  She  went  on  in  an 
altered  voice :  "You'd  better — something  may  happen." 

"What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"O,  I  don't  know.  Ham,  yesterday  the  agent  for 
some  sort  of  society  that  takes  care  of  stray  kids  was 
here — he  was  put  on  to  us  by  that  Wilson  woman  and 
those  others  in  the  block  who  look  at  me  so.  They 
Have  their  suspicions  of  us,  I  suppose.  That  agent 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  321 

talked  about  taking  the  kid  away  if  it  needed  a  home 
or  anything.  He  was  polite,  but  I  knew !" 

His  face  was  serious  as  she  went  on :  "You  see  he 
came  spying  around,  and  he  caught  me  bad — I  was 
smoking,  and  I  guess  I  looked  the  part.  Maybe,"  she 
laughed,  "I'm  not  the  sort  to  have  charge  of  a  baby !" 

"What  did  you  tell  him?" 

"I  told  him  to  go  to  the  devil,  and  backed  him  out 
the  door." 

The  young  man  stared  at  a  little  sweater  the  waif  of 
the  woods  had  worn ;  from  another  room  his  breathing 
came  through  the  silence.  He  looked  about  the  hall. 
The  old  house  had  a  sort  of  Gipsy  abandon ;  Nella  was 
a  happy-go-lucky  housekeeper,  a  miserable  cook ;  she 
idled  most  of  her  days  over  novelettes  and  theatrical 
magazines,  rubbing  her  rings  with  her  cigarette- 
stained  fingers,  but  she  had  been  watchfully  kind  to  the 
Cookhouse  waif,  playing  with  him  in  the  halls  and  on 
the  porch,  dressing  him  fantastically,  and  laughing 
over  his  serious,  childish  perplexities. 

"Ham,  I  shan't  give  him  up,"  she  broke  out;  "I'd 
go  wild  without  something  to  do.  Sometimes  the  old 
man  up-stairs  talks  so  crazy,  and  I  take  Bill  and  skip 
down  to  the  alley  and  sit  in  the  sun.  This  house  is 
spooky — and  you're  away  so  much !" 

He  watched  the  girl's  restless  hands.  The  third  fin- 
ger of  the  right  was  tied  in  a  cloth.  He  caught  her 
arm  and  drew  her  nearer  and  asked :  "What's  the  mat- 
ter ? — another  burn  ?" 

"I  just  cut  it  a  bit,"  she  laughed,  and  tHe  clumsy 
finger-stall  fell  off,  showing  the  red  scar*  The  young 


322  THE  DAY  OF  SOULS 

man  looked  gravely  at  the  finger,  where,  last  night,  one 
of  her  rings  had  been. 

"Kid,  you've  sold  the  opal  with  the  two  diamonds, 
haven't  you?  You've  paid  some  more  of  the  bills, 
haven't  you  ?" 

"O,  not  much.  Only  that  groceryman  was  here — I 
think  Wilson  got  him  excited  about  us — as  though  we 
were  going  to  move  or  beat  him  some  way.  I  just 
raised  twenty  on  the  opal — I  have  the  ticket,  and  we'll 
get  it  back.  And  if  we  don't,  it's  all  in  the  game.  Who 
cares  ?" 

He  went  down-town  without  further  comment,  and 
she  wondered  if  he  was  angry.  She  sat  up  late  to  see 
him  when  he  returned,  but  he  came  back  to  his  rooms 
by  the  outside  stairs,  and  went  away  in  the  morning 
before  she  had  risen. 

At  wharf  nine  of  the  city  front  a  small  stern-wheel 
steamer  lay  with  a  line  of  stevedores  crawling  up  the 
plank  from  her  forehold  under  a  cluster  of  electric 
lights.  Jute  bags  of  potatoes  and  onions,  crates  of  as- 
paragus and  produce  from  the  island  farms  of  the  Sac- 
ramento delta,  they  brought  out,  wheeling  them  away 
to  the  recesses  of  the  covered  dock.  A  curt  manager 
had  explained  Arnold's  duties,  and  at  eight  o'clock  the 
same  night  he  reported  to  stand  by  the  plank  and 
check  off  the  stuff  as  it  was  unloaded  from  the  Juanita. 

It  lacked  a  few  moments  of  eight  when  he  arrived 
to  relieve  the  other  tally  clerk,  and  he  lounged  against 
the  sacked  stuff  on  the  wharf,  watching  the  laborers* 
trot  in  the  dust  from  the  hold,  as  the  steamer  slowly 
heaved  on  the  tide — Italians,  Negroes,  Hindoos  and 


THE  DAY  OF!   SOULS  323 

Mexicans — a  mongrel  breed,  dulled  and  sweat-smell- 
ing. Among  these,  he,  a  fastidious  fellow  of  the  town, 
had  come  to  be — his  world  had  easily  forgotten  him, 
and  to  the  new  way  of  life  he  was  untried. 

He  looked  at  his  watch  and  turned  to  go  along  the 
wall  of  sacks  past  the  office  to  the  boat.  A  man  came 
from  the  office  to  pass  him  in  the  narrow  way ;  then 
stopped,  his  shoulders  stiffening,  his  eyes  lightening 
with  an  intent  challenge.  It  was  Banway,  the  Hum- 
boldt  woodsman,  whom  Arnold  had  not  seen  since 
what  was  to  have  been  his  wedding-day. 

The  big  fellow  watched  him  in  silence  for  a  time. 
Then,  with  portentous  quietness,  he  said :  "I  wonde'd 
if  Fd  eve' see  youP 

"I'm  working  here,"  answered  the  other.  "How  are 
you,  Louisville?" 

"Don't  talk  friendly  to  me!  I  came  down  here  a 
month  ago  to  kill  you." 

"Yes?  But  you  can't  understand.  And  Sylvia 
couldn't  explain.  Do  you  see  her  up  there  ?" 

"Trinity  ?  She's  neve'  been  home." 

"Never  been  home  ?  I  sent  her  back — where  is  she !" 

"Where  would  she  be  ?"  The  woodsman's  eyes  nar- 
rowed malignantly.  "You  threw  heh  off !  Where  was 
there  f o'  heh  to  go  ? — home,  robbed,  disgraced  ?" 

"Where  is  she?"  repeated  the  town  man  steadily. 
"Here,  keep  back — "  the  other  was  pressing  on  him — 
"I  tried  to  explain." 

"Arnold,  I'd  have  shot  you,  only  I  promised  I 
wouldn't!  I  been  fumin'  round  weeks  thinkin'  how  I 
could  get  at  you — God  knows,  I  give  it  up — short  o' 
killin'  you.  It'd  only  be  fool-like  to  curse  you !" 


324  THE  DAY   OF   SOULS 

"Yes,  there's  nothing  to  say.  I'm  sorry — that's  all." 

"Sorry !" 

"Ban way,  how  is  she — tell  me?" 

"She's  gone  insane,  here — in  the  city  where  you  left 
>heh !  Mo',  she'll  die." 

They  stared  at  each  other,  the  one  whitening  to  his 
lips ;  the  other  flaming,  rubbing  his  hands  together  to 
still  their  desire. 

"No,"  whispered  Arnold,  "you're  fooling — she's 
not — "  The  other's  misery  convicted  him.  "Where  is 
she?" 

"At  a  good  woman's — she  was  you'  friend  once. 
Maybe  you  know" 

"Miss  Wayne  ?"  His  swift  thought  went  to  the  night 
she  had  dismissed  him — had  it  all  happened  so  long 
ago?  "I  know,  now — "  he  said  mechanically — "O,  I 
know,  now !" 

The  other  advanced  on  him  in  inextinguishable  hate. 
"What's  it  to  you?"  he  cried.  "Heh  soul's  dead,  an' 
what's  it  to  you  ?" 

The  town  man  turned  aside.  He  wondered  why  he 
was  muttering  that  he  was  sorry — what,  indeed,  could 
words  do?  The  woodsman  watched  his  face  harden 
in  the  shadows — it  seemed  a  cynic's  indifference. 

Arnold  heard  a  step  on  the  planking — a  blow  on  the 
cheek  sent  him  against  the  wall  of  sacks.  From  the 
impact  he  recoiled,  crouched  like  a  fighter  and  met  the 
next  rush  with  hammering  lefts  and  rights,  clenching 
and  bruising  the  Northerner's  face  with  short-arm  jabs 
which  the  untrained  man  was  powerless  to  avoid.  But 
Banway  burst  through  the  boxer's  defense ;  again  they 
clenched  and  twisted  in  the  narrow  way  between  the 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  325 

wall  and  the  dock's  edge,  silent,  except  for  the  strain 
and  choking  draw  of  their  lungs,  reeling,  struggling 
nearer  the  water.  Arnold's  strength  was  spending. 
Though  he  had  split  Banway's  lip  and  eye,  the  woods- 
man was  lifting  him  mightily,  shift  as  he  would ;  and 
then,  crushed  in  each  other's  arms,  they  went  over  the 
dock  by  the  steamer's  bow  into  the  plunging  flood-tide. 

Arnold  had  an  indistinct  recollection  of  striking  an 
iron-bound  splicing  of  the  head-line  as  they  sank.  He 
struggled  in  the  woodsman's  grasp,  and  then  felt  the 
big  fellow  sinking  limply  through  the  water  as  the 
tide  heaved  them  in  the  space  between  the  dock  wall 
and  the  ship.  Down  this  space  came  the  shouts  of  men 
running  on  the  plank,  and  kneeling  to  look  into  the 
darkness.  From  the  confusion  of  electric  lights,  rafters, 
men's  faces  on  the  gang-plank,  a  rope  shot  down ;  Ar- 
nold grasped  it  desperately  until  a  mighty  pull  swung 
them  against  the  piles,  where  he  clutched  at  the  slime 
and  mollusk  incrustations,  still  holding  to  the  other 
man,  who  began  to  struggle  as  his  bleeding  head  came 
above  the  water.  Instinctively  he,  too,  caught  the  rope, 
and  with  his  enemy,  hung  in  the  swing  of  the  tide. 
Men  were  scrambling  down  the  piling. 

"Got  a-hold?"  some  one  shouted.  "Ready,  up  there 
—heave!" 

They  hauled  the  woodsman  up  until  he  stumbled  be- 
wilderedly  across  the  plank  to  the  dock.  He  beat  the 
water  and  mud  from  his  clothes  as  Arnold  came  after 
him,  and  grimly  they  watched  each  other,  with  no 
softening  nor  approach. 

"God's  sake,  Louisville,"  exclaimed  the  mate  of  the 
Juanita,  "what  you  fighting  about? — who  started  this?" 


326  THE  DAY   OF   SOULS 

"It's  the  new  tally  clerk,"  whispered  a  young  man 
from  the  office. 

The  mate,  the  manager  of  the  shipping  firm,  and 
the  stevedores,  looked  on  the  two  wet  and  bleeding 
men,  staring  savagely  at  each  other. 

"Who  started  all  this  ?"  demanded  the  manager. 

"I  did,"  growled  the  woodsman.  "I'd  a-killed  him 
sure — it's  fo'  a  girl  he  knows !" 

They  looked  again  on  the  combatants.  The  mate 
spoke  to  the  manager,  who  regarded  Arnold,  soaked, 
bruised  and  dirty,  with  rising  suspicion.  He  was 
harassed,  peevish,  the  hour  late,  and  he  had  not  been 
to  dinner.  "Who  is  he? — where'd  you  get  him?"  he 
demanded  of  the  subordinate. 

"Some  bum  came  along,"  whispered  the  clerk.  "Mr. 
Bacon  hired  him — I  dun-no — he  was  kind  of  a  well- 
dressed  bum." 

Never  in  his  dilettante  theatricals  had  Arnold  a  bet- 
ter make-up.  He  looked  the  part.  And  the  dock-men 
knew  Banway  of  the  lumber  schooner  trade. 

"Here,  what  you  got  to  say?"  cried  the  manager 
angrily. 

"Nothing — "  retorted  the  young  man,  "not  a  word." 

"You  git  off  this  wharf — we  don't  owe  you  nothing 
yet.  I  don't  want  no  fighting  around  here.  You  git !" 

Arnold  glanced  from  the  manager  to  the  curious 
faces  of  the  stevedores ;  he  had  a  strange  sensation  of 
being  thousands  of  miles  away,  in  a  foreign  port — 
alien,  friendless,  alone — to  him  would  be  dealt  an 
alien's  justice.  He  looked  over  his  clothes,  the  only 
decent  suit  he  had  of  late,  now  smeared  with  slime, 
dock-dust,  wet,  torn  and  bloody,  his  hat  gone,  his  col- 


THE  DAY  OF  SOULS  327 

lar  ripped  from  the  band — yes,  he  was  the  bum  now, 
penniless,  without  a  hand  to  grasp  or  a  place  to  turn. 

The  friends  he  had  had  were  the  friends  of  debon- 
air dressing,  of  the  light  ways  of  the  town,  the  smiles 
of  women  of  the  cafes,  or  idling  sunny  afternoons  on 
street  or  race  course.  But  these  he  had  given  up  in 
some  foolish  way  or  other — now,  he  was  the  ragged 
and  hungry  water  front  bum,  out  of  a  job,  kicked  off 
the  docks.  He  turned  from  them  and  went  to  the  street. 

Through  the  deserted  wholesale  quarter,  and  then 
Chinatown,  his  steps  led  to  the  house  on  the  hill. 
Above  the  turmoil  of  the  fight,  above  even  the  bitter- 
ness of  Banway's  contempt,  because  of  Sylvia  Spring 
and  her  suffering  at  his  hands,  came  the  thrust  of 
failure.  Yes,  he  was  down  now ;  he  had  led  the  gray 
wolves  of  the  town,  dragging  down  their  man  here  or 
there  to  the  killing — but  he  had  come  to  be  the  rene- 
gade, and  the  pack  had  leaped  to  throttle  him.  He  had 
turned,  seeking  what  might  be  fair  or  of  worth,  and 
these  had  rejected  him;  the  city  had  requited  his  evil 
with  evil. 

When  he  reached  the  untenanted  corner  he  leaned 
against  the  forlorn  window  of  the  store  and  wiped  the 
slime  from  his  face.  The  water  drained  from  his 
clothes,  but  he  did  not  feel  the  chill,  even  in  the  bleak 
wind ;  the  tumult  of  blood  and  his  thoughts  racked  him 
hot.  He  tried  to  visualize  Sylvia  as  insane,  dying;  he 
tried  to  say,  as  he  had  said,  that  it  did  not  matter,  to 
brutalize  his  soul  and  smash  out  the  picture — so  much 
of  mean  and  melancholy  failure  had  since  come  that 
he  must  forget  all  together.  But  through  the  humility 
of  his  heart  there  shot  a  new  suffering,  a  desperate 


328  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

grief.  She  seemed  now  the  one  actuality  of  light  he 
had  ever  known,  a  soul  peering  at  him  through  a  veil, 
but  in  no  reproach.  She  had  loved  him  purely. 

As  he  stood  acute  with  this  memory  Nella  called 
him  and  he  did  not  answer  for  a  time.  When  she  re- 
peated it,  he  said :  "Yes,  but  don't  come  down — I'll  be 
there." 

His  voice  betrayed  him ;  he  was  wont  to  come  with 
a  cheery  greeting  to  them  all.  She  appeared  on  the 
stairs  and  he  must  explain  something. 

"Nel,  I've  lost  the  job.  I've  had  a  fight,  too." 

She  had  never  seen  him  so  gripped  from  within,  but 
she  only  said :  "Boy,  you're  hurt.  Come  on  home." 

He  shook  off  the  touch  on  his  sleeve  and  started 
away :  "Don't  wait  for  me.  I'll  be  late." 

But  she  hurried  after  him.  "What's  the  matter? 
Have  you  killed  some  one  ?" 

"Go  back!"  he  retorted  and  roughly  left  her.  But 
though  he  almost  ran  to  evade  her,  to  be  alone  with  his 
remembrance,  the  girl  followed  and  came  on  him  across 
the  street  from  the  Albemarle.  He  looked  at  the  yel- 
low-curtained windows  of  the  cafe,  the  lights  on  the 
table,  the  clean  people  at  this  cheery  affair  of  dining. 
A  year  ago  he  had  been  as  well-ordered  to  this  tolerant 
life  as  they.  And  he  looked  about  at  her,  at  himself, 
wrecked,  alone  with  this  girl  who  clung  to  him,  who 
had  neither  an  understanding  heart  nor  spiritual 
strength.  She  had  become  unkempt  with  the  ways  of 
the  lodging  house,  unpretty  with  a  pallor  stealing  on 
her,  useless,  weak — a  leaf  in  the  storm.  And  with  a 
resurgence  he  saw  her  the  symbol  of  all  he  had  lived, 
made  for  himself,  the  satire  of  his  talents  prostituted, 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  329 

of  ambitions  crushed — failure  he  had  made  of  it  all 
and  this  girl  was  the  symbol. 

Her  voice  came  to  his  fever :  "Let's  go.  What's  the 
use  of  this?" 

"Nel,"  he  muttered,  "you  knew  this  and  you  never 
toldmel" 

"Yes.  What  good  would  it  do?  They  were  against 
you  all — Miss  Wayne  and  your  friend  who  wears  such 
stunning  clothes — they're  a  thousand  miles  above  it> 
and  no  matter  what  you  tried  they'd  never  understand.'* 
She  took  his  arm  again  in  her  pleading:  "But  don't 
you  mind — you  can  go  on — O,  you  must,  and  to  the 
North  like  you  said."  She  tightened  her  hand:  "See 
here — you  must  have  loved  her." 

"No.  It  was  something  more  than  that.  I  caught  at 
her,  trying  to  get  back.  I  never  could  raise  myself 
alone.  Well,  you  can't  understand !" 

No,  she  couldn't  understand.  He  couldn't  fight  the 
city ;  he  had  been  one  to  drift  with  its  pleasuring,  the 
lilt  of  young  life  through  its  amazing  intricacies,  eager 
for  its  adventures — he  had  lived  it  all  and  now  was 
done,  but  it  had  broken  his  man's  will,  shaken  his 
courage,  beaten  him.  Yes,  he  had  jested  too  long,  un- 
caring of  the  better  way ;  now  the  path  back  was  lost. 

"No,"  he  went  on,  staring  at  the  lights,  "what  can 
you  know  ?  What  can  any  one  know  ?" 

But  with  little  inarticulate  endearments,  brushing  the 
slime  from  his  bruised  cheeks,  smoothing  the  hardness 
from  his  mouth,  she  clung  to  him,  glad  for  this  word 
after  the  terror  of  his  repression. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

Nella  went  about  the  small  duties  of  the  house  the 
next  week  more  silent,  curiously  watching  Arnold's 
moods,  more  gentle  in  her  haphazard  caring  for  the 
moonfaced  waif  and  the  old  man.  But  at  length  she 
could  again  laugh  in  her  Gipsy  abandon  to  him  when 
he  came  back  from  his  fruitless  answering  of  adver- 
tisements for  mean  clerkships  and  canvassers'  positions 
in  suburban  towns  for  which  he  had  neither  aptitude 
nor  experience.  He  had  gone  to  the  superintendent  of 
the  Mutual  Bank  Building  and  asked  for  work,  he  told 
her  one  evening. 

"You'll  have  to  have  better  clothes  in  a  bank,"  she 
said  doubtfully. 

He  smiled.  "It  isn't  built  yet — merely  a  hole  in  the 
ground.  I  tried  to  get  a  job  mixing  cement  and  they 
said  I  couldn't — I  didn't  belong  to  the  union." 

She  laughed,  marveling  at  the  thing,  however. 
"We're  in  for  it.  Here's  the  soldier  man  coming  back, 
and  anyhow  by  the  fifth  we'll  have  to  move.  A  big 
Chinaman  has  bought  this  corner  to  make  it  over  to 
a  gambling-house." 

The  young  man  looked  at  the  rooms  crowded  with 
the  stuff  from  his  father's  one  time  home  and  to  which, 
in  his  years  of  army  service,  he  had  added  the  loot  of 
Philippine  towns  and  of  Peking,  along  with  the  accu- 
mulations of  later  years. 

330 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  331 

"I  think  I'll  sell  the  furniture— that  sideboard  is 
heavy  stuff — it'll  fetch  something." 

"It  was  your  mother's,  wasn't  it  ?" 

"Yes."   " 

"And  all  those  pretty  things — the  silver  and  china? 
No — no — don't  you !" 

"Nel,  I'm  broke." 

"Well,"  with  her  elbows  on  her  knees  she  looked  at 
him,  "I  can  do  something.  I  know  a  girl  at  the  White 
House  store ;  maybe  I  could  get  in  there !" 

"No,  you'll  have  to  stay  a  while.  Who'll  take  care 
of  the  Captain  and  the  kid  ?" 

"That's  the  other  thing  I  was  going  to  tell  you. 
That  Wilson  woman,  who  tells  everybody  I'm  tough, 
got  the  officer  of  the  Home  Finding  Society  up  here 
again  to  look  us  over.  He  asked  all  about  the  kid  and 
me,  and  where  Granny'd  gone,  and  he's  going  to  make 
a  report  or  something.  He  mumbled  something  about 
the  court,  and  all  the  old  hens  in  the  block  got  around 
him  on  the  corner." 

"Don't  worry.  They  can't  take  the  kid.  When 
Granny  gets  back,  we'll  make  some  new  arrange- 
ments— "  he  broke  off,  staring  doubtfully  at  her  puz- 
zled face.  If  Granny  did  not  return — what  then? 
"Nel,"  he  muttered,  "what'll  you  do  when  the  old  es- 
tablishment here  goes  to  pieces  ?" 

She  thrust  out  her  small  foot,  twisting  the  brilliant 
beaded  slipper  so  that  it  sparkled  in  the  light.  "I  never 
bother — what's  the  use  of  thinking  about  myself  ?  I've 
been  funny  lately,  Ham.  I've  been  just  happy  here, 
trying  to  cook  and  listening  to  the  Captain  growling 
away  about  the  battles.  He's  getting  so  he  isn't 


332  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

pompous  with  me,  and  thinking  women  are  foolish — 
he's  blind  and  can't  tell  whether  I  rouge  my  cheeks  or 
not !  To-day  I  took  his  skinny  old  hand  and  put  it  on 
my  face  and  asked  him  if  I  did.  It  made  him  laugh — 
the  first  time  I  ever  made  the  old  soldier  man  laugh !" 

She  swung  her  foot  restlessly  from  the  table  top, 
still  admiring  the  beaded  slipper,  and  then  looked  with 
disdainful  pity  at  the  cuts  on  her  hands.  She  had 
smiled  through  this  disastrous  experiment,  her  eyes 
burning,  her  fingers  soiled  in  the  greasy  kitchen; 
through  a  thousand  failures  fretting  her  temper,  dull- 
ing her  youth. 

"We're  nearing  the  end,"  Arnold  answered  irrele- 
vantly. "I'm  broke.  But,  Nel,  I've  been  offered  a  place 
worth  a  hundred  a  month." 

She  cried  out  with  a  child's  joy,  "Where?" 

"Playing  the  piano  at  Sheehan's.  I  met  Ferreri  to- 
day— he  can  fix  it." 

The  girl  got  from  her  perch  and  came  to  him  with  a 
hard  grimace — a  new,  surly  look,  a  cat  cornered  and 
feverish  to  fight  its  hates :  "No,"  she  growled,  "no!" 

"Nel,  I'm  drifting  back.  Something's  taken  the  heart 
out  of  the  fight.  I  thought  things  would  help  a  fellow 
to  be  decent,  but  nothing  does.  I  was  with  the  old  gang 
to-day — the  race-track  crowd — and  they  cheered  me. 
I  tell  you,  I've  failed  at  trying  to  be  decent." 

She  suddenly  put  her  hand  on  his  shoulder  with  a 
brilliant,  intent  study,  her  blue  eyes  narrowing.  "A 
piano  player  in  a  dance-hall?  No,  you  don't.  I'll  go 
on  the  town  myself  first !" 

He  turned  to  her  a  face  as  hard  as  her  own.  "I'd  kill 
you." 


THE  DAY   OF   SOULS  333 

She  relaxed  seriously  from  his  hands  and  stared 
down,  her  brow  wrinkling.  She  bit  one  of  her  small 
scarred  fingers,  and  then  laughed  joyously. 

"O,  boy,  let's  not  care !  I  can  drift,  because  things 
can't  hurt  me.  But  you — it's  different.  You  got  to  be 
like  I  dream  of  the  Captain's  Larry — the  fellow  who 
got  the  honor  medal.  Honest,  Hammy,  I'm  in  love 
with  him !" 

The  dissembler  started  as  he  always  did  at  the  por- 
tent of  this  obsession  in  her  and  the  Captain.  He  drew 
Nel  to  him,  holding  her  hands.  "I  wish  you  wouldn't 
talk  that  way.  I  wish  there  was  a  Larry — if  there  were 
only  some  one  you  would  care  for !" 

"Yes,"  she  muttered,  "everything's  different  when 
there's  some  one  to  care  for!"  Then  her  old  mood 
came  back.  "O,  who  the  devil  cares  about  our  souls? 
We  don't  need  to  be  happy.  A  man  can  just  go  on 
and  be  square  as  he  can,  whether  there's  any  place  like 
Heaven  or  not.  And  for  me,  I'm  almost  happy.  I'm 
changing.  When  Larry  comes,  maybe  it  will  be  a  great 
thing  for  us  all.  Waiting  for  him  has  kept  me  straight 
and  kind,  maybe.  O,  it's  wonderful  to  care  for  some 
one!" 

The  liar  sat  back,  trying  to  clear  the  astonishing 
dilemmas  of  his  creating,  this  confusion  of  real  lives 
and  phantom  faiths  about  him. 

"You  got  to  go  on !"  Nel  added,  laughing  in  his  som- 
ber face.  But  when  he  had  gone,  and  the  hours  drew 
to  midnight  in  the  quiet  house,  with  only  the  little 
clock  in  the  kitchen,  and  the  tired  child's  breathing, 
she  went  restlessly  from  room  to  room.  At  last,  on  the 
stairs  below  the  Captain's  apartment,  she  sat  waiting, 


354  THE  DAY   OF   SOULS 

shivering  at  times  in  the  chill  and  drawing  her  frayed 
silken  skirts  about  her. 

"It's  an  awful  tangle,"  she  muttered,  "he's  beaten- 
beaten,  everywhere.  It's  so  still  to-night — like  when 
men  kill  themselves." 

She  sat  two  hours,  crouched,  staring  from  a  window 
over  the  side  balcony  at  the  trades  fog  drift  across  the 
sky.  The  glow  down-town  made  of  it  huge,  twisting 
ghosts  above  the  city  and  the  silence  on  the  hilltop 
was  acute. 

At  three  o'clock  Arnold  came  home.  He  had  been 
drinking  for  the  first  time  in  months.  Nella  met  him 
with  no  surprise.  She  went  before  him  to  his  rooms, 
took  his  hat  and  the  fine  top-coat  which  had  concealed 
his  shabby  suit;  and  then,  as  he  sat  before  the  table, 
she  pushed  back  the  thin  curls  from  his  brow. 

"Kid,"  she  said,  "what  did  you  do  it  for?" 

He  smiled  slowly  at  her  from  the  confusion  of  his 
heated  brain  and  took  her  hand  from  the  table's  edge. 

"I  struck  a  queer  crowd  to-night,"  he  answered 
quietly.  "Did  you  ever  hear  of  Oregon  Slim  ?" 

"Is  he  that  big  con  man  who's  doing  time  at 
Folsom?" 

"He's  out  now  and  back  in  the  old  hang-outs  where 
Stillman  and  I  used  to  have  him  line  up  some  of  the 
Pacific  Street  vote.  Well,  I  met  him  to-night.  He  was 
surprised  to  see  me  down  and  out — and  he  made  me  a 
proposition." 

"Yes,"  Nella  said,  with  the  same  intent. 

"Do  you  want  to  know?"  he  demanded. 

She  was  silent  and  he  laughed  briefly.  "A  hold-up. 
He  knows  when  his  man  will  have  the  goods — and  has 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  335 

planned  a  getaway.  I  told  him  I'd  consider  and  let  him 
know  to-night." 

"Well,"  she  retorted,  "the  town's  broke  you — when 
you'll  stop  to  listen  to  that!"  She  slipped  from  the 
table,  came  to  him,  clasped  her  hands  about  his  shoul- 
der, looking  up  attentively.  "Yes,  that's  the  way  we 
go.  You  just  drift  down  and  nothing  stops  you.  I 
knew  you  were  ready  for  any  desperate  game — and  I'm 
not  straight  myself  and  can't  help  you."  She  laughed 
with  forced  nonchalance.  "O,  well,  suppose  I  just  go 
my  own  way  to  the  devil  and  you  go  be  an  out-and-out 
crook?  Just  suppose?" 

"You  can't  do  that,"  he  muttered.  "I  didn't  say  I 
was  either." 

"But  it's  creeping  on  you.  And,  O,  you're  not  a  man 
for  that!  You  got  to  keep  on  square,  somehow.  I've 
been  sort  of  proud  of  you !  Just  proud,  like  you  were 
my  brother — only  that !" 

"Nel,"  he  whispered,  and  put  his  arm  about  her 
slender  shoulder,  in  his  eyes  a  brother's  gentleness, 
"I've  never  cared  a  deal  for  women — but  they're  all 
splendid  somehow!" 

"Am  I  ?"  she  answered,  a  curious  hesitance  to  her 
laugh.  "No  one  ever  told  me  so  in  all  the  world !" 

Then  laughingly,  in  one  of  her  wilful  whims,  she 
caught  up  the  hand  of  the  North  woods  waif  and 
trailed  the  child  from  the  room.  "Come,  Babe,  don't 
mind  that  man.  I  ain't  afraid  for  him  after  all — he 
couldn't — just  for  you  and  the  old  soldier  man  and  me, 
he  couldn't!" 

That  night  at  bedtime  she  hung  about  the  child's 
neck  the  little  silver  crucifix  that  her  young  sister  had 


336  THE  DAY   OF   SOULS 

sent  her  from  Notre  Dame — the  sister  she  had  not  seen 
in  six  years  and  who  knew  nothing  of  her  except  that 
badly  written  and  brief  letters  with  money  came  at 
uncertain  intervals  to  the  convent's  head. 

Arnold  discovered  the  trinket  on  the  child's  breast 
the  next  day,  and  covered  Nel  with  confusion  by  his 
query. 

"What  do  I  want  with  a  fool  cross  like  that?"  she 
retorted.  "Crosses  and  little  gods  made  out  of  silver  ? 
It's  all  right  for  your  religious  friend — she  used  to  be 
impressive  in  that  black  silk  robe  with  the  little  gold 
cross  on  a  little  gold  chain.  Do  you  remember  ?" 

"Let's  forget,"  he  answered  quietly.  "That's  done, 
too." 

His  tone  drove  the  lightness  from  her,  but  she  went 
on.  "I  don't  know.  You're  thinking  of  her,  Hammy — 
of  her  and  of  all  the  decent  women  you  ever  knew — 
women  who  can  laugh  without  fear  of  anything.  Yes, 
you're  in  a  sort  of  dream  of  them.  And  it's  all  a  mys- 
tery to  me.  Sometimes  I  think  you  loved  one  of  them 
— that  Sylvia,  or  Miss  Wayne.  Or  maybe  it's  just  be- 
cause they're  different — something  that  might  have 
helped  and  you  think  is  lost  to  you." 

"Yes,  I  think  that's  it  A  man  needs  that.  He's  got 
to  think  of  women  that  way  if  he's  ever  to  get  back  a 
better  way." 

She  looked  at  his  introspective  mood.  "There  were 
two  good  women,"  she  went  on.  "And  one  or  other 
of  them — you  can't  forget — you  loved  her."  And  then 
she  laughed  in  her  old  refusal  to  be  held  to  a  sober 
mood.  "O,  well,  I  can't  help — I'm  just  careless  Nel!" 

She  slipped  away,  leaving  him  with  a  sense  of  that 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  337 

meaningless  pathos  in  women,  the  myriad  procession 
who  found  nothing  and  as  meaninglessly  passed,  their 
laughter  echoing  through  the  ages,  hiding  the  inex- 
orable tragedy,  the  infinite  hunger  of  their  souls. 

Another  night,  after  the  Captain  was  asleep,  Arnold 
came  to  sit  by  the  cleared  supper  table  where  the  girl 
was  sewing. 

"What's  that?"  he  asked  presently. 

She  laughed  flutteringly.  "O,  just  a  little  spread  for 
your  dresser!  To  take  the  place  of  that  dirty  thing. 
I'm  learning  a  new  stitch  from  Kohamma,  the  Japanese 
shoemaker's  wife,  down  the  hill." 

He  took  the  linen,  cheap,  handsoiled,  miserably 
worked — even  his  man's  eyes  recalled  much  better 
things  in  the  tawdriest  shops.  The  girl  had  pricked 
her  finger,  her  red-brown  hair  was  over  the  cloth,  and 
he  saw  the  net  of  lines  woven  below  her  lashes.  Her 
hands  were  small,  unequal  to  the  clean  gripping  of  the 
world  of  work.  She  suddenly  laid  one  beside  his  own 
and  laughed  aimlessly.  Then  she  lifted  his ;  across  the 
palm  were  purple  abrasions. 

"What  have  you  been  doing  to-day?"  she  whipped 
out,  keen  as  a  fox.  "This?" 

"Got  a  job  at  the  new  bank  building — I'm  a  cement 
mixer's  helper." 

The  girl  sprang  up  and  away  to  survey  him.  "I  no- 
ticed white  on  your  clothes.  Why,  you  dear  old  fool — 
I  won't  have  it !" 

But  looking  at  him,  she  came  again  to  lay  her 
kitchen-roughened  hand  by  his;  and  suddenly,  in  a 
burst  of  laughter,  she  kissed  his  brow,  the  tears  in  her 
blue  eyes. 


338  THE  DAY   OF   SOULS 

"O,  don't  mind  me !  I'm  just  Nel,  who's  happy  when 
it's  sunny,  and  every  one's  good-humored!" 

Outside  the  night  fog  thickened,  the  hill  was  dull. 
After  a  time  they  heard  a  sound,  a  fumbling,  and  the 
Captain,  his  coat  open,  showing  his  hairy  breast, 
groped  in.  The  old  man's  eyes  were  turned  brightly  to 
them  in  the  lamp's  glow,  but  Arnold  sprang  up  with  a 
cry — for  four  days  the  veteran  had  not  left  his  bed  for 
sheer  weakness. 

The  soldier  warned  him  with  a  prophetic  ringer. 

"Hear  that  ?   The  troop-ship's  in  the  bay !" 

They  heard  the  moan  of  the  siren  through  the 
silence.  The  old  man  saluted. 

"Sir,"  he  added,  "will  you  have  my  sword  for  me  to- 
morrow ?  Will  you  go  with  me  to  meet  the  boy  ?" 

"The  Sherman  will  not  be  here  until  Thursday,  Cap- 
tain. That's  only  the  fog-horn  off  the  Point." 

But  the  Captain  shook  his  head.  "It's  the  troop-ship's 
whistle.  I  have  listened  now,  three  days.  To-morrow 
we'll  go  meet  them — those  young  righting  fellows  who 
did  so  well  at  Bamboang." 

He  turned  triumphantly  and  went  to  his  room. 

"Thursday?"  muttered  Nella,  her  eyes  brilliantly  on 
the  younger  man.  "As  soon  as  that?  An  officer  with 
yellow  cavalry  stripes — what'll  I  wear  for  him  ?" 

Arnold's  face  darkened ;  he  was  gripped  with  form- 
less doubts.  Night  after  night  he  had  held  them,  raised 
them,  creating  the  roles  and  playing  the  parts  in  the 
drama  of  Bamboang — first  recklessly,  ardently;  then 
wearily,  in  confusion,  before  the  old  man's  eagerness, 
the  girl's  absorption.  The  reckoning  had  come — the 
dream  fortress  where  he  had  fought  for  them  so  long 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  339 

was  crumbling.  His  mind  was  busy  with  futile  inven- 
tions. What  should  he  say  when  the  troop-ship  lay  at 
anchor  in  San  Francisco  Bay  ? 

Nella  brought  a  letter  to  the  table,  tossed  it  to  him. 
"What  do  you  think  ?"  she  said  idly.  "Granny  says  her 
brother's  laid  up  for  a  year  and  she  can't  tell  when 
she'll  be  back.  She  said  we'd  better  give  up  the  house 
and  sell  everything  for  her  and  do  just  the  best  we 
could."  He  caught  her  eye  roving  over  the  familiar 
walls.  "It  sort  of  hurts  me,  Kid,"  she  muttered.  "This 
is  more  like  home  than  I  ever  knew !" 

He  nodded.  Yes,  it  had  sheltered  them,  the  grim 
ghost  of  a  house  on  the  hillside ;  around  it  the  fogs  and 
rains  had  battered  since  the  town  had  stood.  It  seemed 
that  of  late  no  one  came  there,  few  passed  the  decay- 
ing block — they  were  cut  off,  clinging  to  the  place  as 
to  a  gray  rock  watching  the  menace  of  the  sea. 

"Home !"  he  said.    "It's  been  like  that." 

The  round-faced  infant  waddled  to  Arnold's  chair; 
he  drew  it  up  to  the  arm  and  sat  it  there.  "You  little 
devil — I  wonder  what  the  tough  old  game's  got  for 
you  some  day?  Who'll  play  square  with  you  and  see 
you  through  afterward  ?  Somehow,  he  likes  me,  Nel — 
he  and  the  pup." 

"Who  don't?"  she  murmured  apathetically.  "It's 
like  when  you  used  to  stroll  into  the  old  places,  the 
gayest  and  the  best-dressed  of  them  all — they'd  all  be 
glad  just  because  you'd  come." 

He  wondered  at  the  sweetness  of  her  praise ;  he  won- 
dered what  faint  ray  he  might  have  cast  from  his  life 
to  other  lawless  spirits  in  the  darkness,  what  good  he 
might  have  flung  away  that  had  found  lodgment. 


340  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

"Just  glad  because  you  came."  Perhaps  that  was  some- 
thing. In  the  silence  the  girl  stretched  the  silly  little 
cloth  across  the  table.  "I  wish  I  had  some  clothes 
left,"  she  said  listlessly.  "I'll  be  a  fright  to  have  a  man 
like  that  around  the  house — an  officer  with  the  medal 
of  honor."  Then  she  threw  her  shoulders  back  and 
laughed :  "Tell  me,  Hammy,  am  I  as  pretty  as  I  used 
to  be?" 

"Prettier,"  he  answered.  "Seems  like  there's  some- 
thing new  about  you.  Nel,  it's  strange  we're  here — 
you  and  I  caring  for  an  old  man  and  a  baby.  Do  you 
know  what  day  this  is — it's  the  Burns  Handicap. 
Just  a  year  ago  to-day  I  placed  a  bet  for  you  and 
brought  the  winning  ticket  back  to  you  in  your  red 
machine — sixteen  hundred  dollars — and  that  night 
you  flung  a  thousand  away  on  Kid  Brannan's  first  big 
fight." 

"Gee!"  her  old  baffling  laugh  rang  out,  "and  to- 
night we're  broke!  O,  what  a  game!  And  it  just 
seems  like  I'd  been  happy  here !" 

"That's  the  strangest  thing,"  he  answered ;  "just  to 
watch  you — to  try  to  believe  it's  Nel  Free — and  yet  I 
can't  see  you've  changed.  Good  God,  what  a  game! 
I  wonder  where  we're  drifting?  Nel,  if  you  only  cared 
for  some  one !" 

"I'm  in  love,"  she  mocked ;  "that  lieutenant  with  the 
medal.  It's  grand  to  care  for  some  one — it's  the  great- 
est thing  in  the  world !" 

She  looked  over  some  waists  and  hats  the  next 
morning,  musing  in  doubt.  Some  she  threw  aside,  but 
one  she  studied  over.  "But  it  won't  do.  I  wish  I 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  341 

hadn't  pawned  so  many  things.  If  I  only  had  one  de- 
cent street  gown !" 

At  ten  she  went  to  Bernice  Murasky's  apartments  at 
the  Clifford.  The  Jewess  had  greatly  changed,  dress- 
ing indolently  in  an  alcove  off  her  sleeping-room.  She 
had  never  looked  so  well,  so  contented,  wearing  an  ele- 
gant wrapper.  On  her  table  was  a  mass  of  wild  lupine, 
smelling  of  the  sea,  lightening  the  clean  wall  tints  and 
the  pink  and  white  bed. 

Nella  looked  apathetically  about  this  place,  sweet- 
ened by  the  sun,  perfumed;  exhaling  and  completing 
the  soft  allurement,  the  daintiness  that  suggests  to 
women's  fancies,  the  cupid  arch  over  the  ineffable 
presences  of  love. 

Bernice  was  surprised:  she  had  not  seen  Nella  for 
weeks.  She  was  suspicious,  as  women  are,  when  their 
kind  come  with  obvious,  but  inexplicable  motives,  con- 
cealing it  with  patronizing  interest,  but  ferreting  out 
surmises  of  each  other. 

Nella  was  ill  at  ease.  She  asked  and  replied  to  ques- 
tions, each  hovering  about  the  other's  furtive  defenses, 
alert  against  reprisals.  The  visitor's  eyes  fixed  on  a 
jewel-box  of  heavy  silver; 'and  then  on  a  great  beetle 
of  diamonds  against  a  black  velvet  bodice,  which  had 
been  thrown  over  a  chair  from  last  night's  wearing — 
a  thing  bigger  than  the  pearl  butterfly  she  had  once 
owned,  and  which  had  been  sold  long  ago  from  the 
house  on  the  hill. 

"Bernice,  you've  got  some  lovely  things.  I  saw 
Mannie  once,  and  he  said  you  and  Ferreri  were  going 
to  be  married." 

"Maybe — this  fall.    Louis  is  making  lots  of  money. 


342  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

He's  g6t  a  new  machine.  His  company  has  got  the 
supervisors  cinched,  and  the  saloon  men  scared  to 
death.  They're  all  customers  now.  He  and  Stillman 
are  pretty  thick — that's  it.  You  still  living  with  the  old 
lady  ?  They  say  Ham  Arnold's  gone  all  to  pieces.  He 
was  a  fool  to  quit  politics  when  he  did — just  when 
Stillman  got  the  town  all  tied  up.  Where's  Ham  now  ?" 

«O_home!" 

"Some  one  said  he  was  with  the  Mutual  Bank — 
down  in  the  foundations,"  the  Jewess  laughed,  "work- 
ing from  the  ground  up !" 

Her  inflection,  the  lift  of  her  shoulders,  the  suspi- 
cion of  a  luxurious,  cat-like  content  were  each  lent  to 
that  subtle  under-wisdom  of  satire  with  which  women 
bite  one  another.  Nella  turned  restlessly  away;  she 
would  have  sold  her  soul  if  the  chance  had  offered 
rather  than  broach  her  errand — another  moment  and  it 
would  be  impossible. 

She  burst  abruptly  on  Miss  Murasky's  solicitude. 

"Look  here,  Bernie;  I'm  having  a  new  gray  suit 
made  at  Calleau's,  but  I  can't  get  it  until  Saturday.  It 
cost  ninety-five,  but  that's  all  the  good  it  does  me  now. 
I  want  to  go  down-town  to-day  and  I'm  kind  of  short 
of  things.  Could  I  take  that  blue  street  dress  for  the 
afternoon  ?" 

"It's  gone  long  ago.  But  you  need  something  ?  Kid, 
I've  got  pretty  stout,  but  say — how's  that  etamine" — 
she  was  searching  in  the  closet — "this  is  tight  for  me' 
— it's  old  anyhow.  Can  you  use  it  ?" 

The  other  girl  examined  the  gown:  "Yes — yes — 
can  I?  And  if  I  had  a  hat— " 

"Here's  this  black — you'd  look  good  in  it  if  you  only 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  343 

had  more  color.  You  didn't  used  to  have  to  put  on  so 
much  rouge.  Now  it  sort  of  sticks  out  on  you.  What's 
up — got  something  on  to-night  ?" 

"O,  I'm  just  going  down-town!  I  got  a  friend — an 
army  fellow  I  used  to  know.  Maybe  we'll  eat  at 
Paul'-." 

"Kid,  you're  getting  thin.  You're  a  fool,  Nella. 
You  used  to  have  everything  you  wanted.  Now,  what 
are  you  getting  out  of  life  ?" 

"I'm  all  right.  You  ought  to  see  that  swell  jray  I'm 
having  made.  Can  I  keep  this  until  Sunday  ?" 

"Sure.  As  long  as  you  want.  Do  you  need  any- 
thing else?" 

"No,  I'm  all  right."  The  visitor  was  rolling  her 
treasures  in  a  paper,  speaking  with  a  difficult  humility, 
for  this  subordination  to  her  dependent  of  old  days  sud- 
denly crushed  her  as  no  other  revelation  could  have 
done.  "Why  don't  you  come  over  the  hill  and  see  us  ? 
It's  awful  quiet  at  Granny's." 

"I'm  pretty  busy — I  go  somewhere  with  Louis'  ma- 
chine, most  every  afternoon,  or  else  some  of  the  girls 
come  in.  I  should  think  you'd  just  go  crazy  alone  in 
that  tumble-down  old  house !" 

"O,  we  have  fun !  When  I  get  that  tailor-made—" 
"Come  over  and  dine  with  me  some  night.  We'll  go 
down  to  Green's  and  see  if  any  of  the  old  crowd  hang 
out  there  now.  Wally's  got  a  new  song  published  and 
he  made  a  lot  of  money  out  of  it  this  time.  Every- 
body seems  to  have  got  on,  of  all  that  old  bunch,  ex- 
cept Ham  Arnold." 

Miss  Murasky  was  shaking  out  the  black  velvet 
with  the  diamond  beetle  so  that  its  gleams  were  in  the 


344  THE  DAY   OF   SOULS 

other  girl's  eyes  as  she  turned  at  the  door.  "Will  you 
come  over  ?" 

"O,  sure."  But  each  knew  that  she  would  not — it 
would  be  too  conclusive  a  triumph  if  Bernice  could 
flout  her  shabby  friend  about  the  midnight  cafes  where 
once  the  shop-girl  had  been  the  dependent.  "Bernie," 
went  on  Nella,  "do  you  ever  go  to  the  shows  and 
operas  like  you  used  to  be  so  wild  about  in  the  old 
days?" 

"Do  I?"  Bernice  held  the  door  as  the  other  girl 
paused  in  the  hall.  "Nel,  I'm  as  crazy  as  ever.  I  blow 
every  cent  I  get  on  the  theaters.  I  heard  Melba  last 
week  in  concert — every  one  of  them.  It  was  just  like 
a  silver  string  covered  with  pearls  and  diamonds  fall- 
ing from  her  lips.  O,  if  I  could  sing  that  way — if  I 
only  could!"  She  smiled  brilliantly  from  the  door. 
"O,  we'd  be  happy  and  we'd  be  good  if  we  had  every- 
thing we  wanted  1" 


CHAPTER   XXIV 

The  Sherman's  coming  had  been  anticipated  for  a 
week.  Public  committees  had  planned  a  great  recep- 
tion for  the  troops  returning  from  the  Philippine  cam- 
paigns ;  already  the  city  was  decorated.  Market  Street, 
up  which  the  soldiers  would  march  from  the  water 
front,  was  forested  with  banners,  while  huge  buntings 
overhung  the  cross  thoroughfares,  and  the  buildings 
were  resetted  with  medallions  of  the  republic. 

The  gray,  slurred  street  was  now  brilliant,  bizarre, 
palpitant  above  the  kaleidoscopic  crowds  dissolving  and 
re-forming  along  the  roped  curbs,  craning  and  peering 
past  the  police  down  the  distance  to  the  ferry  under  the 
red  and  starry  tumult  of  the  morning. 

Through  these  throngs — these  good-natured,  mercu- 
rial San  Franciscans,  for  ever  young,  for  ever  hopeful 
and  easily  amused,  eager  for  motion,  fascinated  by  col- 
ors, attuned  to  the  unusual,  as  generously  alert  to  the 
largeness  of  the  heroic  as  they  were  careless  of  its  com- 
mon duties — Arnold  and  the  Captain  made  a  slow  way. 
The  old  man  had  passed  a  sleepless  night.  He  was  up 
early,  groping  about  the  room  for  his  sword  with  the 
faded  sash,  his  coat  with  the  brass  buttons  and  the 
high-crowned  hat  with  its  tarnished  cord.  They  could 
not  quiet  the  veteran's  excitement ;  protesting,  in  a  se- 
cret bewilderment,  the  younger  man  consented  to  lead 
him  to  the  parade.  The  troop-ship  had  come  from 

345 


346  THE  DAY   OF   SOULS 

quarantine  at  daybreak ;  at  nine  o'clock  the  soldiers  had 
disembarked. 

Arnold  went  to  his  rooms  before  they  left  for  the 
event.  He  found  Nella  before  his  dresser  where  was 
the  best  mirror  in  the  house.  She  laughed  extenuat- 
ingly,  rubbing  a  delicate  color  to  her  cheek;  her  lips 
were  full  and  rosy,  her  eyes  bright.  She  brushed  out 
the  last  suggestion  of  a  freckle,  shrugging  her  shoul- 
ders and  smiling  in  the  glass. 

"Will  he  be  here  by  dinner?"  she  asked,  between 
the  pins  in  her  mouth.  "I'd  better  get  a  good  roast, 
eh?" 

"Nella,  suppose  he  should  not  come?  The  Cap- 
tain's worked  up  so  that  I  don't  know  exactly  what  to 
tell  him." 

"Shouldn't  come?    Why  shouldn't  he  come?" 

"You  see  a  wounded  man — well,  you  can't  tell  any- 
thing about  it  in  this  army  business."  The  liar  turned 
dispiritedly  away.  "Where  are  the  Captain's  gloves — 
the  ones  with  the  gauntlets?  He  won't  start  without 
them." 

On  the  street  the  long  sword  impeded  the  veteran's 
progress.  He  stopped.  "It  might  expedite  the  march, 
sir,  if  you  would  carry  this."  He  unclasped  the  webbed 
belt  with  its  tassels  of  the  Civil  War.  "I  am  not  so 
sure — so  strong — thank  you,  sir.  Now,  we  shall  ad- 
vance." 

They  came  within  hearing  of  the  crowds  along  the 
line  of  ropes  and  the  old  man  stopped  again,  his  mus- 
taches twitching,  his  eyes  staring. 

"It  seems  that  I  can  see  a  little  clearer.  It's  only  a 
blur  of  color — but  isn't  that  the  flag,  sir  ?" 


THE  DAY   OF   SOULS  347 

"It's  only  an  awning,  Captain.  We  can't  get  much 
nearer  the  street ;  the  crowd's  too  dense." 

But  the  Captain  was  satisfied  to  stop  by  a  corner  in 
an  eddy  of  the  clamor.  "You  can  tell  me  when  he 
passes.  He  should  be  with  his  troop  and  not  with  the 
invalided  men." 

"Captain,  suppose  he  did  not  come  with  the  troop 
— his  wound,  you  know — " 

"An  arm  gone?  A  mere  scratch.  He  wouldn't 
leave  the  squadron — those  young  fellows  who  did  so 
well  at  Bamboang !" 

Arnold  turned  wearily  away. 

Erect  the  Captain  stood,  leaning  his  sword  between 
his  clean,  square-toed  shoes,  the  button  of  the  Loyal 
Legion  in  the  lapel  of  his  blue  coat. 

Under  his  gray  brows,  with  the  scar  of  Kenesaw, 
his  eyes  blinked  at  the  brightness.  The  passers  looked 
curiously  at  them — the  old  man  in  the  uniform  he  had 
worn  in  the  triumphal  march  past  the  cax  vol  in  '65, 
the  young  man  holding  to  his  arm  quietly  listening  to 
the  fine  morning  life.  Down  the  street,  under  the  for- 
est of  banners  and  medallions,  alive  in  the  breeze  and 
sun,  the  burst  of  the  march  drew  nearer,  a  fitful  theme 
on  the  wind,  now  lost,  now  clear,  over  the  press  and 
shuffle  of  the  crowds,  until  its  gladness  rode  high  and 
far,  meeting  the  roar  of  the  cheering  as  the  surge  of 
the  sea  grapples  the  ebb-tide  at  a  river's  mouth. 

The  Captain  was  silent  in  the  throng.  Arnold  drew 
him  to  a  lamp-post  and  then  clambered  to  the  flange,  so 
that  he  could  see  over  the  people.  By  his  face  was  the 
brown  foot  of  a  boy  clinging  above,  his  toes  twisted  in 
the  iron  work.  The  young  man  could  see  the  police 


348  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

platoon,  a  smooth  machine  fitting  between  the  massed 
curbs  as  in  a  groove,  passing ;  and  then  the  vibrating, 
slurred  opaqueness  of  the  drum  heads  before  the  flag 
of  the  republic  and  the  blue  standard  of  a  regiment  of 
state  infantry.  Behind  the  mounted  officers  a  tall  lieu- 
tenant marched  at  the  company's  flank,  as  the  ranks  of 
dirty  khaki,  the  scruffed,  gray  leggings  in  quick  ca- 
dence, licked  up  the  asphalt  of  the  street. 

Silent,  erect,  elbows  close  in  company  front,  their 
burned  faces  grim  under  the  rakish  hats,  the  sun 
aglint  on  the  ugly  little  rifle  tips,  came  the  Californians 
back  from  this  last  Argonautic  expedition  of  the  rest- 
less West,  the  high,  final  crest  of  the  wave  of  the  white 
races  circling  the  globe  against  the  dark — the  outpour- 
ing of  the  Aryans  through  dim  ages  and  from  mysteri- 
ous spaces,  here,  now,  finding — as  some  American  sen- 
try paced  a  lonely  island  shore  peering  through  the 
moonlight  toward  the  coast  of  Asia — the  end  of  the 
adventure,  for  there  stood  the  portent  of  the  East. 

"The  shouting,  sir  ? — what  is  it  ?"  The  old  man  was 
clutching  Arnold's  leg. 

"The  infantry,  Captain.  Wait — here  they  come — 
the  Second — my  old  squadron!  There's  Bemis  of 
Troop  B !" 

The  dark-faced  fellow  was  shouting  in  the  roar  of 
voices  to  a  swarthy  corporal  of  the  cavalry.  Another 
rider  saw  him,  lifting  a  gauntlet  so  that  his  yellow 
chevrons  flashed  in.  the  sun — it  was  Creedon  with  his 
pranks  and  wit!  And  back  to  Arnold  the  old  life 
surged,  the  sights  and  sounds  and  smells  of  camp  and 
barrack  and  outpost — Samar,  Cavite,  China  and  the 
Forbidden  City — the  guidon  colors  and  the  bugle-calls, 


THE  DAY   OF   SOULS  349 

the  sweated  leather  and  the  good  sea.  He  saw  again 
the  white  curve  of  the  surf  on  warm  beaches,  the  nipa 
thatches  and  the  spread  of  canvas  along  opal-skyed 
lagoons ;  old  friendships,  rights  and  loves  through 
tropic  days  and  luminous  nights,  youth  fervent  and 
far-wandered.  And  now  the  troop  had  passed  him  by ; 
he  was  alone  with  the  town  that  had  cracked  his  bones, 
licked  his  soul  hollow  of  great  dreams,  fattening  on  his 
needs  and  weaknesses.  O,  but  he  was  young,  he  would 
go  back — he  would  live  again ! 

The  old  man  was  tugging  at  his  knee,  his  blinded 
eyes  upturned.  Very  patient  he  had  stood  in  the 
tramping  and  the  blare,  old  marches  and  forgotten 
songs  beating  an  immemorial  cadence  in  his  heart, 
though  the  splendor  long  had  darkened. 

"Did  you  see  him,  sir  ?"  the  Captain  quavered,  for  he 
knew  the1  riders  had  passed.  "Who  led  the  squadron  ?" 

Arnold  looked  away  as  he  felt  the  father's  touch. 
The  regulars  were  far  along,  infantry  again  were  pass- 
ing, the  low  forest  of  black  little  muzzles  tilting 
through  the  cold  hard  sunshine  of  the  San  Francisco 
street.  He  saw  the  crowds  engulfing  the  rear  of  the 
last  company. 

"Captain,  I  suppose  he's  with  the  hospital  men.  But 
I  told  you  he  might  not  come — his  wound,  you 
know—" 

"Only  an  arm,  sir?  He  should  be  with  his  troop 
for  this  last  march." 

"Well,  we'll  see.  Let's  get  out  of  here — we  can  rest 
a  moment  in  the  park." 

He  led  the  soldier  from  the  throngs  a  block  to  Union 
Square  where  they  found  a  seat  along  the  sward,  with 


350  THE  DAY   OF  SOULS 

the  swallows  twittering  in  the  acacias  about  the  Sol- 
diers' and  Sailors'  Monument.  The  old  man's  step  was 
heavy;  he  laid  his  sword  across  his  knees  and  wist- 
fully strained  his  eyes  up  to  the  bronze  Victory  rising 
from  the  marble  shaft.  "He  can  reach  the  house  in  an 
hour  from  the  Presidio,  can  he  not,  sir  ?" 

"Yes,"  muttered  the  younger  man,  in  fear  at  some 
change  in  the  father's  face.  "We'll  go  home — we'll 
await  him  there." 

The  Captain  sighed  peacefully.  An  hour  is  nothing 
when  one  has  waited  a  lifetime;  one  can  give  that  to 
the  honor  of  the  service. 

He  was  submissive  on  the  way  back  to  the  lodgings. 
As  they  left  the  car  and  climbed  the  hill  he  said  to  the 
other : 

"Isn't  it  darker,  sir?  A  cloud  over  the  sun?  I  seem 
to  see  shadows." 

"It's  only  one  o'clock,  Captain,  but  it's  been  a  hard 
walk  for  you.  Now  you'll  have  to  lie  down.  I'll  get 
Nella  to  fix  that  medicine  the  young  doctor  left  for 
you." 

"Yes.  I'll  rest.  Lawrence  should  be  here  before 
night.  I'm  going  to  make  a  bit  of  ceremony  of  it,  sir. 
You  see,  we  parted  in  rather  bad  blood.  My  son  was 
a  wild  fellow,  but  after  Bamboang — well" — the  vet- 
eran twisted  the  worn  leather  and  faded  silk  about  the 
scabbard — "I'm  going  to  present  him  his  father's 
sword.  I  wore  it,  sir,  at  Kenesaw." 

He  would  not  undress,  but  lay  quietly  on  the  bed  in 
his  long  blue  coat  with  the  double  row  of  buttons. 
After  a  while  the  young  man  stole  to  the  bed  with  a 
blanket,  laying  it  about  him.  The  old  man  stirred. 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  351 

"Thank  you.  I  am  content.  You  will  awaken  me  if  I 
should  drop  off — when  he  comes  ?" 

"Yes.  But,  Captain,  maybe  he's  delayed — you  know 
I  said,  perhaps — " 

"I'll  wait,  sir.    He  should  be  here  before  dark." 

The  young  man  turned  away:  "Yes,  yes — I  sup- 
pose!"— but  in  the  hall  he  murmured,  "I've  done  it 
now — I've  done  it !" 

He  went  to  his  rooms  at  the  front.  The  sunlight  on 
the  balcony  was  bright;  the  afternoon  trade  winds 
were  rising  with  a  fillip  of  dust  in  the  cool  streets,  lac- 
ing fog  into  the  purple  mountains  across  the  Golden 
Gate.  Moodily  from  the  windows  Arnold  watched  the 
North.  The  day  had  curiously  tired  him ;  he  felt  de- 
tached, alone,  with  the  sense  of  failure.  He  had  not 
worked  to-day,  after  a  week  with  the  cement  layers  in 
the  foundations  of  the  bank  building,  because  yester- 
day the  union  men  had  objected,  and  the  contractor 
had  laid  him  off,  saying  he  should  be  sent  for  if  the 
matter  was  adjusted.  Arnold  had  applied  for  member- 
ship in  the  union — for  the  time  he  must  work,  the 
household  being  at  an  extremity. 

He  remembered  the  Captain's  medicine  and  went  to 
the  kitchen  at  the  rear  for  a  glass  of  water.  Nella  rose 
hurriedly  as  he  entered.  He  stared  at  her  and  con- 
sciously she  glanced  down  over  her  borrowed  finery — 
the  brown  silk  skirt,  the  lace  of  the  ill-fitting  waist  a 
bit  soiled.  Her  eyes  were  very  bright,  her  cheeks  more 
full,  the  lips  arched.  Under  the  hat  of  black  plumes 
and  beaded  stuff  she  was  pretty. 

"Why,  Nel !"  he  started  from  his  survey  of  this  new 


352  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

setting — for  weeks  he  had  seen  her  in  nothing  but  hap- 
hazard house  gowns  and  gay  kimonos — "Nel  1" 

"Has  he  come  ?"  she  asked  intently. 

"Who?" 

"Larry?" 

His  start,  the  significance  of  the  look  in  his  eyes, 
stirred  her  to  a  sharp  advance  on  him. 

"He  hasn't?  Good  God,  is  that  old  man  disap- 
pointed again  ?" 

"Nel,  you  dressed  for  him — his  coming?" 

"Why,  yes — I  looked  a  fright.  I  borrowed  this  of 
Bernice.  I  just  got  wild  thinking  of  how  I'd  let  every- 
thing go  this  summer.  But  where  is  he  ?" 

The  young  man  did  not  answer ;  he  appeared  to  be 
listening  at  the  attic  stairs. 

"Come  to  my  rooms,"  he  said,  and  she  followed  him, 
the  borrowed  silks  rustling  in  the  stillness. 

He  took  her  hands  and  looked  at  her  so  gravely  that 
she  was  in  confusion.  "See  here — Larry  Calhoun  is 
dead." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  as  if  in  pain.  "Dead? 
Does  the  old  fellow  know  ?" 

"No.  Nel,  I've  made  an  awful  tangle  of  this.  Larry's 
been  dead  a  year,  and  he's  no  hero.  He  was  as  wild  a 
chap  in  the  service  as  I  was,  and  no  one  ever  picked  me 
for  promotion  or  honor  medals." 

Nella  checked  a  sharp  little  laugh ;  she  turned  away. 
"Well,  I  might  have  known — of  course  it  was  some- 
thing !"  She  sat  down  and  took  off  the  plumed  hat  and 
smoothed  out  the  borrowed  skirt.  "Yes,  everything 
goes  that  way." 

"I  should  have  told  you  long  ago,"  Arnold  added, 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  353 

"but  I  never  dreamed  it  would  come  to  this — the  old 
man  waiting  and  you — caring  so !" 

"I  suppose  you  think  I'm  crazy,"  she  went  on  apa- 
thetically, "telling  you  I  loved  a  man  I  never  saw! 
And  a  dishonor  man,  you  say?  Well,  somehow,  I 
might  have  known !" 

He  started  at  the  hardness  of  her  laugh. 

"Don't  you  mind,"  she  went  on,  "only  'most  every- 
thing I  ever  cared  for  went  this  way.  He  was  so  real 
and  brave  to  hear  you  tell  of  him.  That's  all.  What'll 
we  do  with  the  old  man  now  ?" 

"I  don't  know.  He's  played  out  to-night.  To-mor- 
row— some  way  or  other." 

"It'll  kill  him,  Hammy.  We'd  better  get  the  army 
people  to  take  him  to  the  Presidio  hospital.  O,  I'm 
afraid  you've  muddled  things,  boy !" 

He  answered  sadly :    "I  know." 

"Well,"  she  went  on,  "after  all,  it  doesn't  matter. 
Only  I  waited  for  that  soldier  fellow.  It  kept  me  here 
and  quiet  when  I  was  miserable.  Seems  like  all  my 
life  I've  been  trying  for  something  or  some  one — just 
trying,  and  nothing  came  of  it.  First,  there  was  Eddie, 
and  he  killed  himself — "  she  shook  off  the  tremble  in 
her  voice.  "O,  well — now  I  can  drift  on !" 

"No,"  Arnold  retorted,  and  it  drove  the  pretense 
from  her  eyes ;  "you've  been  true  for  eight  months  to 
what?  Something  you  thought  was  fine,  an  ideal — a 
dream — a  love." 

She  shivered.  "Don't — it  scares  me — he's  dead — 
and  he  wasn't  a  hero  anyway."  She  went  on  petu- 
lantly :  "You  can  go  talk  that  way  to  other  women,  but 
not  me.  I'm  like  yourself — something's  dead  in  me — 


354  THE  DAY  OF  SOULS 

nothing  matters."  She  rose  with  her  old  Gipsy  aban- 
don, her  careless  laugh  rang  out.  "O,  don't  mind  me, 
boy!  You've  been  square  with  me  always.  I'd  have 
thought  all  men  were  sneaks  if  it  hadn't  been  for  you. 
And  I  wanted  to  do  something  for  you,  too ;  you  tried 
your  best  for  me.  That  means  a  lot — to  cling  to,  to 
fight  back  with  what  little  good  there  is  in  one — like 
us." 

He  watched  her,  marveling  at  her  truth.  Yes,  they 
knew  the  way  of  the  beaten ;  always  they  would  have 
to  go  the  lower  path,  try  what  they  might  with  aching 
hearts  and  sore  hands  and  weary  heads — that  would  be 
the  fulfilment  of  their  lives.  One  can  not  bring  back 
the  luster  to  the  lily  windwhipped  to  the  earth. 

As  he  watched  her  unanswering,  there  came  a  sound 
of  metal  struck.  It  came  again  as  they  listened.  "Per- 
haps his  sword  has  fallen,"  Arnold  said  and  tiptoed  to 
the  hall.  Then  he  went  above. 

The  girl  went  to  the  balcony.  Down  the  street  she 
saw  a  crowd  of  children,  a  slattern  wife  or  two,  and 
hastening  from  them  Kohamma,  the  wife  of  the  Jap- 
anese shoemaker,  in  whose  charge  Nella  was  wont  to 
leave  the  waif  of  Cranberry's  when  she  went  out  of 
afternoons.  The  little  brown  woman  held  her  own 
sloe-eyed  infant,  but  Bill,  the  Cookhouse  Kid,  was  not 
with  her.  Nella  ran  to  meet  her  in  some  alarm,  con- 
scious that  down  the  street  the  neighbor  women  leveled 
at  her  the  hostile  eyes  of  the  bourgeoisie — always  they 
had  hated  her,  always  isolated  her  in  scorn.  "Look 
here,"  she  cried  to  Kohamma,  "my  boy — they — they 
took  him?" 

"Tey  come,"  the  Japanese  woman  nodded  frighten- 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  355 

edly,  "law  man — officer.   Tey  look  for  you — tey  read 
papers — tey  take  baby." 

"The  kid!"  Nel  flashed;  "I  knew!" 

"Law  man  say  you  come  court  tomallo — nex'  week 
— mebbe.  I  dun-no."  She  held  forth  a  document,  a 
court  order  directing  that  the  woods  waif  be  taken  over 
by  the  Home  Finding  Society  until  an  inquiry  could  be 
made  as  to  the  fitness  of  its  guardians.  Nella's  eyes 
went  to  the  triumph  of  her  enemies  in  the  street  in 
long  hate,  then  she  seized  the  papers  and  without  a 
word  ran  back  to  the  rooms. 

They  were  cleaner  than  they  had  ever  been,  in  honor 
of  the  absent  guest.  This  week  she  had  given  long 
hours  laughingly,  in  a  sort  of  dream,  to  the  care  of  the 
house — the  woodwork  and  the  glass  shone  with  a  grim 
expectance,  stealthily  watching  her  from  wall  and 
angle.  In  the  hallrack  was  the  blue  sweater  of  Bill,  the 
woods  waif. 

The  girl  looked  at  it  in  some  trouble.  "Well,  it's 
best — maybe.  Everything's  going  now.  The  Captain 
to  the  hospital  to-morrow,  and  then  Hammy  North  to 
the  range.  Well,  it's  all  in  the  game,  and  I  can  quit, 
too." 

The  little  pot  with  the  hyacinth  bulb  which  Frank 
Arasaka  had  given  Miss  Cranberry  last  winter  stood  in 
the  kitchen  window ;  it  had  never  blossomed.  The  girl 
took  it  to  Arnold's  rooms  and  set  it  on  the  table  by  the 
greenshaded  student  lamp.  "Granny  said  to  give  it  to 
him  when  it  bloomed."  Then  she  added,  "Well,  maybe 
it  tried  and  hadn't  a  chance." 

In  the  man's  apartments  she  had,  that  day,  set  a 
small  table  for  two,  with  the  choicest  silver  and  most 


356  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

delicate  cups  from  his  collection.  About  them  was 
trailed  a  wisp  of  wistaria  which  she  had  stolen  from 
Portsmouth  Square  to  array  the  board  for  the  home- 
coming soldier  of  Samar.  Nella  studied  the  effect  for 
some  time ;  then  she  put  the  stunted  hyacinth  by  Ar- 
nold's plate  and  wrote,  with  some  effort,  on  a  tablet 
which  she  laid  near  it.  Then  looking  again,  with  quiet 
attention,  at  the  wistaria  among  the  silver,  she  stole  to 
the  stairs  in  the  hall  and  listened.  There  was  no  sound. 
She  went  to  the  street. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

At  four  o'clock  Grace  Wayne  was  writing  at  a  desk 
in  her  alcove  room.  It  was  a  day  of  winds,  bleak  mid- 
summer, and  a  fire  burned  in  the  apartment  beyond, 
where  Sylvia  Spring  was  reading.  The  woman  looked 
up. 

"I'm  writing  to  Mr.  Banway,  to  tell  him  that  you'll 
sail  on  the  second.  And  —  shall  I  add  a  word  from 


The  girl  turned  with  a  smile  ;  through  the  weeks  of 
her  convalescence  she  had  had  the  unvarying  sweetness 
of  a  tired  child  for  the  older  woman.  "Tell  him  I'm 
coming  —  thank  him  and  all  the  boys  in  the  camps  up 
there  —  they've  been  so  good  always."  She  fell  to 
watching  the  drift  of  fog  through  the  San  Bruno 
Passes  above  the  Mission  ;  from  this  high  window  one 
saw  the  clouds  drown  the  suburbs  and  flow  on  to  the 
bay.  "And  you  —  how  could  I  ever  thank  you  ?" 

Miss  Wayne  put  down  the  pen  and  came  to  take  the 
other's  hands.  Through  weeks  of  such  human  service 
as  she  had  never  known,  through  days  and  nights,  she 
had  listened  to  Sylvia's  brainsick  enshrining  of  John 
Arnold's  memory;  long  she  had  studied  this  fantastic 
faith  until  the  days  of  returning  reason  and  acceptance. 
She  wondered  at  herself,  at  the  patience,  the  gentleness 
she  had  given  to  this  humble  duty,  this  common  way, 
at  the  happiness  she  had  found  in  this  work  of  her 

357 


358  THE  DAY   OF   SOULS 

hands — the  giving  all  to  ask  nothing.  It  was  strange, 
this  service  to  which  the  mystic  had  come  to  give  her 
untried  strength.  Banway,  the  woodsman,  who  had 
stayed  near  them  in  the  city  until  Sylvia's  recovery  was 
assured,  had  parted  with  her  in  a  prophecy  when  he 
went  North.  "I  heard  you  preach  once,"  he  said,  out 
of  his  brooding  tenderness  for  the  two  women;  "I 
couldn't  unde'stand — no  man  could  unde'stand,  fo'  it 
seemed  triflin'  an'  beyond  them  all.  But  now  I  see  why 
men  stop  to  listen  to  you  on  the  street — the  grand  voice 
and  you'  face.  You  had  some  otheh  way  to  A'mighty 
• — that's  all.  You  was  fitten  an'  you  was  called." 

She  sent  him  away  with  a  smile  he  did  not  under- 
stand— a  pathos  from  her  own  gratefulness  at  this  first 
praise  men  had  ever  given  her.  She  had  descended 
from  the  infinite  that  needs  no  concern  to  a  service  of 
the  world  and  had  found  its  sweetness. 

And  now,  with  a  sense  of  loss  for  the  ending,  she 
went  on,  to  Sylvia's  apathetic  ear.  "I'm  to  go  to  Seattle 
and  sail  for  Australia  next  month.  Dear  heart — I've 
come  to  care  so  for  you,  but  you'd  better  go.  You  see," 
she  smiled  and  continued  slowly,  "I  have  no  one  on 
earth  whom  I  know  particularly — no  relation,  friend. 
It's  hard  to  tell  what  you've  meant  to  me.  I'm  grate- 
ful that  you  came — with  your  sorrow." 

Since  Sylvia's  return  from  her  fantasies,  they  had 
not  adverted  to  the  tragic  year  of  her  life. 

"Yes,  it's  best,"  the  country  girl  mused.  "I'm  well 
— and  I'm  forgetting,  seems  like.  And  up-in-back  it'll 
be  pretty  when  the  rains  come.  You  don't  know  the 
trails  and  hills  where  he — where  we — "  She  put  her 
hand  to  her  eyes  which  had  now  a  trifle  of  her  fever's 


THE  DAY   OF  SOULS  359 

vagueness — "but  up  there  seems  like  I  could  rest — just 
sleep  and  forget." 

Grace  Wayne's  strength  seemed  to  have  been  her 
refuge;  in  the  days  when  the  phantoms  lingered  she 
had  come  as  now  to  seek  the  other  woman's  hands, 
her  cool  voice,  her  serenity.  And  as  they  had  done  for 
weeks  they  sat  in  the  quiet  room  watching  the  fogs 
ride  through  the  passes. 

At  five  o'clock  the  house  telephone  announced  a 
caller  for  Miss  Wayne.  She  asked  a  question,  hesi- 
tated, looking  back  at  the  girl  from  the  reception-room, 
and  then  assented.  A  few  minutes  later  she  admitted 
the  visitor.  Nella  Free  stood  in  some  conscious  defi- 
ance at  the  door,  then  she  went  on  with  directness. 

"Well,  I  came  again.  I  wanted  to  know  how  she 
was.  How  is  she  now  ?" 

Grace  warned  her  to  a  lower  voice;  the  girl  in  the 
room  beyond  had  let  the  book  fall  from  her  hand  and 
was  gazing  out  the  window. 

"Be  seated,"  the  older  woman  motioned  Nella  to  a 
chair.  "Yes,  she  is  very  well.  And  going  home  Friday 
by  the  steamer." 

Nella  stirred.  "Yes?  And  that  will  end  it  all?" 

"End  it  all?" 

The  caller  had  been  three  times  before  to  ask  of  the 
sick  girl ;  of  herself  and  Arnold  she  had  said  nothing, 
and  Grace  Wayne  had  not  inquired.  Nella  went  on 
musingly.  "Seems  like  a  pity.  She  was  the  only  good 
girl  who  ever  cared  for  him  I  think — seems  to  me  she 
could  help  him  on.  I  tell  you,  he's  tried — O,  he's  tried !" 

She  gathered  herself  against  the  strength  of  the 
Other  woman  and  hiding  this  resolution  beneath  a  show 


36o  THE  DAY  OF   SOULS 

of  nonchalance,  continued :  "It's  just  this — he's  losing, 
and  he's  tried.  Everything's  slipped  away  from  him 
somehow — everything  that  held  him  fighting  for  us  all. 
And  he's  not  a  man  who  can  drift  alone — I  don't  think 
he's  ever  forgotten  Sylvia.  I  guess  he  loved  her,  after 
all." 

She  saw  no  change  in  the  calm  face  before  her,  and 
went  on  with  a  rising  appeal :  "I  thought  you'd  under- 
stand— he  trusted  you,  and  you  threw  him  off.  He 
seemed  to  think  you'd  help,  but  you  sent  him  away  and 
wouldn't  let  him  have  his  chance." 

The  older  woman  stirred  at  the  recital ;  then  she  an- 
swered. 

"He  was  beyond  redemption.  He — well,  you  know 
the  story — "  she  had  pointed  to  the  fire-lighted  room 
beyond.  "Out  of  all  his  life  I  could  have  forgiven 
everything  but  that."  She  hurried  on  as  if  checking 
a  passional  confidence  that  would  rise  in  her.  "He  lied 
at  the  moment  I  thought  he  was  most  fine — most  true 
to  the  best  in  him." 

"You  believed  it  all,"  Nella  muttered;  "you  never 
let  him  have  his  chance !" 

The  mystic  watched  her  trouble:  "Why  did  you 
come  to  me  with  this  ?" 

"Because  you  were  his  chance,"  the  girl  retorted. 
"It  would  take  a  decent  woman  to  help  him — and  you 
were  the  only  one  he  knew !" 

She  could  not  guess  the  conflict  in  the  other  who  had 
no  answer.  And  for  a  long  time  they  were  still,  watch- 
ing each  other  across  the  room  with  no  common  ground 
on  which  to  meet  the  issue.  On  this  silence  Sylvia,  be- 
yond, by  the  window,  spoke  and  then  came  out  to  them. 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  361 

She  had  a  trace  of  surprise,  and  then  a  fluttering  cry 
broke  from  her. 

"You  ?    Seems  like  I've  seen  you !" 

Grace  Wayne's  warning  hand  was  too  late.  "Yes," 
Nella  answered,  "you  have." 

The  other  girl  put  her  hand  to  her  head  bewilder- 
edly.  "And  in  that  crapy  old  house — seems  like  things 
are  clearing  that  have  been  so  confused  since  I  was 
sick.  You — I  saw  you  down-stairs — you  spoke  with 
him!" 

"Yes,"  Nella  retorted,  "and  now  go  on — you'll  have 
to  remember!" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  Grace  interposed.  "That 
night  ?  Sylvia,  we've  never  asked  you  all." 

"Go  on,"  Nella  muttered.  "You  saw  me  at  Sedaini's 
— and  then  what  ?" 

"I  remember  that  old  house  in  the  rain — and  there 
were  two  children  sleeping  in  his  rooms  so  he  made 
me  a  place  on  a  great  red  and  green  rug.  And  then 
he  went  away." 

They  watched  her  groping  back  to  awakening  mem- 
ory. "And  then  it  was  a  beautiful  morning  and  I  found 
him  asleep  on  the  balcony  all  wet  with  dew  and  I  threw 
my  violets  on  him." 

"Go  on !"    It  was  Grace  who  spoke  now,  her  eyes  4 
bright  on  the  other,  her  breath  hard  with  eagerness — 
"Sylvia!  Goon!" 

"That's  all.  That  day  something  terrible  happened — 
he  came  back  to  me  down-town,  stern  and  white — he 
gave  me  back  my  money  and  left  me." 

"Your  money?" 


362  THE  DAY   OF   SOULS 

"I  didn't  take  it.  I  left  it  with  him — ten  thousand 
dollars  in  a  little  silk  case." 

Grace  turned  from  them  to  find  in  the  darkened  win- 
dorr  a  vision  of  a  night — a  drunken  outcast  picked 
from  the  street — a  silken  case  that  she  had  tried  to 
secure  for  him — his  blithe  lying,  his  rebuffing  jest. 
Suddenly  she  turned  on  them  crying  out :  "Yes — tell 
me?  Was  that  all— all?" 

The  country  girl  stared  at  her  frightened.  "Yes — he 
just  left  me." 

"I  knew,"  Nella  muttered,  and  she  rose  grimly  tri- 
umphant. "I've  never  doubted — somehow,  I  know  him 
so  well.  And  he's  been  pretty  crooked,  too."  She 
flashed  past  them  to  the  hall,  drawing  her  cloak  about 
her  with  a  defiant  flirt.  "I  knew  his  very  worst." 

Grace  had  come  swiftly  after  her :  "Be  still.  Nella — 
wait!" 

The  visitor  thrust  her  chin  out  with  a  careless  grim- 
ace: "Yes?" 

"Where  are  you  going?" 

"O,  drift  around."  She  laughed.  "I've  quit  up  there. 
There's  nothing  for  me  to  do."  Then  she  menaced  the 
other  with  audacious  bitterness :  "I  told  you  I  believed, 
and  you  didn't.  See  here — if  he  loves  that  girl,  you'd 
better  be  square  with  them.  She'd  go  to  him — and  he 
needs  some  one." 

"Nella,  I  don't  think  she  cares  now — she — "  her 
voice  was  swept  by  a  feeling  Nella  had  never  known 
in  her — "O,  the  fool!  the  fool — to  throw  away  his 
chance  so  splendidly!  Nel,  you're  right — he  came  to 
me,  and  I  turned  him  away.  He  believed  me  and  I — 
ah,  well — he  shall  know  now !" 


THE  DAY   OF   SOULS  363 

Nella  looked  in  astonishment  at  her  vehemence,  the 
outpouring  of  some  high  fervor  catching  up  her 
strength,  her  purpose,  binding  to  some  single  resolve 
all  the  dramatic  personality  masked  by  her  soul's 
serene  shield.  She  could  not  understand  her  crossing 
the  outer  room  to  switch  the  light  and  stand  before  her 
mirror,  her  eyes  more  bright,  her  cheeks  flushed,  her 
long  body  tense  with  a  splendid  eagerness,  her  slim 
hands  up  to  the  heavy  masses  of  her  hair.  "O,  it  is  I — 
/  who  failed !  O,  Nel,  you're  teaching  me !" 

They  watched  her,  one  from  within  the  room  and 
one  at  the  threshold,  in  wonder ;  and  then  Nella  caught 
at  the  underflow  of  this  feeling,  guessing  through  the 
intricate  defiles  of  the  other's  heart.  She  turned :  "And 
you?  That's  why  he  believed  in  you!  I  wondered — O, 
I  wondered  why  you  should  hurt  him  so!  But  you'll 
have  to  bring  them  to  each  other." 

Grace  turned  her  eyes  on  the  other  in  a  high  pity : 
"Did  you  think  I  feared?  Nel,  did  you  think  I  need 
cear?" 

The  other  girl  watched  them  in  misunderstanding. 

Half  an  hour  later  Bernice  Murasky,  at  the  Clifford, 
was  surprised  to  have  Nella  walk  in  on  her  wearing 
the  borrowed  gown,  but  carrying  a  suit-case  and  a 
bundle  wrapped  in  newspapers.  The  caller  dropped 
her  burdens  on  the  floor,  and  sat  across  from  the  old- 
time  friend  with  a  whimsical  laugh. 

"See  here,  Bernice,  can  I  stay  all  night?  My  propo- 
sition is  off  for  to-night." 

"Sure,"  the  other  girl  laughed,  in  return  at  Nel's 


364  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

flash  of  energy  at  odds  with  her  usual  indolence.  "Stay 
long  as  you  please.  Didn't  the  things  fit  you  ?" 

"O,  they're  all  right.  But  I  just  quit  Granny's. 
There's  nothing  to  hang  around  for  now.  Have  you 
got  any  Vermouth  ?  Let's  make  a  Martini !" 

Miss  Murasky  eyed  her  friend  with  the  town's 
shrewd  reading. 

"O,  of  course,  if  you've  had  any  trouble  with  any 
one,  why,  stay  with  me  till  you  get  on.  Nel,  you  used 
to  be  awful  good  to  me  in  the  old  days.  But  I've  not 
seen  you  for  ages — you  must  have  been  getting  re- 
ligion from  that  preacher  friend  of  Jack  Arnold's. 
Does  she  ever  buzz  you  about  your  soul  ?" 

Nella  laughed.  "She  says  it  can't  be  harmed.  Well, 
if  it  can't,  why,  I'm  all  right,  I  suppose.  O,  what's  the 
use  of  wrangling  about  it,  Kid !" 

Bernice  joined  her  merriment.  "Yes.  We'll  go  eat 
at  Green's  to-night  and  charge  it  to  Louis.  You  look 
good  enough  in  that  waist,  but  gracious,  the  pretty 
things  you  used  to  have !" 

"Yes,"  answered  the  other  girl  patiently,  "and  I 
don't  see  any  use  of  me  looking  like  a  fright  for  ever." 

Nel  went  down-town  to  buy  a  pair  of  gloves  with  a 
borrowed  five  dollars  while  Miss  Murasky  finished  her 
toilet.  She  loitered  on  with  the  people,  feeling  a  new, 
buoyant  freedom,  and  stopped  before  a  shop  window, 
where  a  wondrous  gown  was  shown.  She  needed  a 
dress,  and  loved  pretty  things,  and  looked  critically  at 
this.  Then  she  thought  of  her  little  sister  at  Notre 
Dame — she  had  promised  her  a  white  dress  for  con- 
firmation. 

She  idled  again  before  the  gown,  studying  its  prob- 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  365 

able  cost ;  then  she  saw  her  face  in  the  mirror  beyond. 
She  decided  intently  that  she  was,  after  all,  prettier 
than  ever,  her  cheeks  more  full,  and  preened  with  bird- 
like  twists  of  her  white  throat  before  the  glass.  Then 
she  noticed  the  rough  places  on  her  hands  and  rubbed 
them  interestedly — they  recalled  the  curious  weeks 
now  past. 

"If  any  one  ever  cared  enough,"  she  mused,  "I'd 
love  to  fix  a  little  table  like  that,  with  wistaria  among 
the  silver." 

She  idled  on  from  the  gown  in  the  window.  Pretty 
things  cost  money.  She  drifted  on,  a  leaf  in  the  storm, 
lost  now  in  the  enveloping  crowds  of  the  street. 


CHAPTER   XXVI 

Arnold  came  to  his  rooms  after  an  hour  at  the  old 
man's  side.  He  had  thought  much  and  little  had 
cleared ;  only  it  must  be  things  were  shaping  to  some 
end  and  soon.  The  sight  of  the  old  squadron  had 
stirred  a  new  and  acute  sorriness.  The  soul  of  other 
days  and  great  resolves  came  back  with  the  passing 
troop ;  he  must  find  them  all  again,  somewhere,  some- 
how— it  did  not  matter  so  that  he  again  might  be  sim- 
ple of  heart,  carefree,  lifting  his  hand  to  a  comrade  in 
the  open  as  Bemis  of  Troop  B  had  done  to-day,  pass- 
ing on  the  march.  His  crush  of  impressions  had  left 
him  dulled,  but  through  them  a  nameless  hope  stirred. 

Because  of  his  intent  he  did  not  discover,  for  a  time, 
on  the  rack  near  his  door,  a  single  rose,  red  on  its  long 
stem.  Wonderingly  he  lifted  it  to  find  among  the 
leaves  a  card.  It  read : 

I  called  for  you  at  six.  I  know  now.  I  am  coming 
again  to-night.  GRACE  WAYNE. 

He  stood  in  some  confusion  after  he  had  carried  the 
flower  to  the  table,  lighted  the  lamp  and  again  read  the 
message. 

But  his  mind  linked  her  call  at  once  with  Sylvia,  the 
tragedy  he  had  made  of  this  life,  and  of  that  he  had 

366 


THE  DAY,  OE  SOULS  367 

long  refused  to  think — he  had  convicted  himself  of  it, 
he  was  paying  for  it  all.  He  had  made  his  fight  and 
lost ;  never  would  he  find  the  inviolate  peace  of  the  vic- 
tor ;  he  had  passed  the  dead  line  from  the  bright  world 
above.  Well,  he  would  go  his  way,  alone — that  was 
what  he  had  long  told  himself ;  he  would  be  beyond  the 
need  of  comfort  or  support — after  all,  with  rough 
hands  and  human  lapses,  a  man  must  build  his  own 
temple  if  it  were  but  a  heap  of  dirt  above  the  plain. 

When  he  laid  the  great  rose  on  the  table  he  saw 
the  tablet  on  which  Nella  had  scratched — by  the  little 
brown  Japanese  pot  with  the  hyacinth  bulb. 

The  girl  had  written:  "Hammy,  I'm  quitting  you 
to-night.  If  the  old  soldier  goes  to  the  Presidio,  as 
you  said,  you  won't  need  me.  And  I'm  giving  you  the 
hyacinth.  Granny  said  to,  if  it  would  ever  bloom." 

It  had  not.  In  the  cheap  little  jar  it  had  no  light,  no 
sweetness,  no  gift  of  color  or  perfume — the  town  had 
killed  its  soul. 

The  young  man  sat  in  tKe  chair  across  from  the  ta- 
ble. He  looked  at  the  two  messages — beside  the  impe- 
rial splendor  of  the  mystic's  gift  the  hyacinth  was  a  bit 
of  gray  choked  by  the  dirt. 

He  read  again  Nella's  scrawl.  "I  don't  believe  it," 
he  muttered.  "She's  fooling — she  couldn't  leave  me 
so!" 

He  went  to  the  long  windows  and  looked  down  at 
the  city,  the  red  interstices  of  the  streets  between  the 
monolithic  blackness  of  the  blocks.  For  weeks  he  had 
felt  cut  off,  an  alien  from  the  surge  of  its  life.  All  that 
he  had  known,  lived,  fought  was  there.  It  seemed, 
presently,  that  two  paths  stretched  from  him  out  to  its 


368  THE  DAY   OF   SOULS 

fulguration  and  beyond,  and  he  knew  not  which  to 
follow. 

The  wind  was  noisy  in  the  gables.  The  watcher 
fancied  that  he  heard  a  stir  without,  steps  coming 
lightly  along  the  hall.  He  started,  glancing  at  the 
door,  at  the  splendid  rose,  red  with  a  queen's  robing, 
subduing  the  room.  He  listened  again  for  the  steps, 
then  with  a  quick  reach,  a  look  at  the  hyacinth,  he 
tossed  the  great  rose  the  room's  length,  to  the  shadow 
of  the  tinsel  god. 

"Nella,  is  that  you?"  But  opening  the  door  he 
stared  into  the  empty  hall.  The  lodgings  were  still  and 
expectantly  clean.  He  was  puzzled  by  the  stealth,  the 
shadows.  After  a  while  he  went  above  and  found  the 
Captain  watching  the  last  light  which  to  him  was  a 
mere  dulling  of  the  opaque  sphere.  The  veteran  noted 
his  presence. 

"Sir,  I  have  something  to  say." 

"Yes." 

"When  we  were  in  Union  Square  to-day,  was  it 
cloudy  or  was  the  sun  shining?  It  seemed  my  eyes 
cleared  a  bit — I  could  almost  make  out  the  monument 
of  Victory — wasn't  there  something  moving  above  the 
figure?" 

"Moving?  The  bronze  Victory  has  a  wreath  and  a 
trident." 

"No.  There  was  a  blur  of  color  above  the  shaft — 
dazzling — as  of  a  sword  in  the  sun.  Eh,  sir  ?" 

"Captain,  the  sun  was  very  bright." 

"Well,  well — my  eyes,  I  suppose — my  old  eyes.  It 
will  soon  be  taps  for  me — it's  best  the  boy  is  coming 
home — a  soldier  now,  after  that  affair  at  Bamboang/1 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  369 

The  old  man  sank  lower  on  the  pillows.  By  now  the 
room  was  dark  with  a  filter  of  young  moonlight  on  the 
roofs  without.  After  a  while  he  turned  from  the  win- 
dow: "Are  you  still  there,  sir?  I  have  something 
more  to  say." 

"I'm  here,  Captain." 

"You  have  been  kind  to  me.  I'll  hardly  need  you, 
now  that  Lawrence  is  here,  but  I  wish  to  thank  you. 
I  may  have  been  harsh  at  times — I  disliked  you — the 
town's  light  ways — the  women  you  knew — your  idle- 
ness. I  am  frank,  sir — but  after  you  came  home  from 
the  war  and  Lawrence  stayed,  you  were  kind  to  me.  I 
doubted  you  and  you  were  patient." 

"Captain,  it  is  nothing.  Larry  and  I  were  bunkies, 
and  I  promised  him  I'd  look  to  you." 

"You  have  done  well."  The  soldier's  fingers  were 
stealing  across  the  coverlet.  "My  sword,  sir — will  you 
place  it  nearer?" 

The  watcher  closed  the  other's  hand  on  the  naked 
steel.  One  was  hardly  less  cold  than  the  other,  but  the 
old  man's  face  spoke  peace. 

"Would  you  mind  buckling  the  belt  about  me?  I 
wish  to  be  dressed,  erect  when  he  comes— eh,  sir  ?  The 
honor  of  the  service !" 

"The  honor  of  the  service,  Captain." 

"Listen !"  The  veteran  raised  his  fingers.  "Is  that 
the  band?" 

They  waited.  "No,"  said  Arnold,  "the  wind  in  the 
balcony." 

"But  isn't  there  a  step  in  the  hall?" 

"Captain,  it's  only  a  shingle  flapping." 

The  old  man  laid  back.    "I  heard  music,  sir.    A 


370  THE  DAY  DE  SOULS 

march  that  was  played  before  the  capitol.  We  were  two 
hundred  thousand  in  the  line,  and  I  led  the  regiment, 
for  no  man  above  me  had  lived  to  see  that  day.  It 
seems  lighter — isn't  it  nearly  morning?" 

"It's  only  seven  o'clock.  You  rest,  Captain — I'll  be 
back." 

The  younger  man  went  below,  searching  for  Nella. 
He  lighted  the  dim  hall  gas,  wondering  suddenly  where 
the  child  might  be.  The  cringing  dog  came  out  of  the 
shadows  to  his  feet. 

"Old  lad,"  Arnold  murmured,  "where  are  they? 
She  surely  isn't  gone.  She  never  failed  to  be  here  to 
get  supper  for  us  all — the  kid  and  you  and  me." 

He  was  hungry,  having  eaten  nothing  since  morning ; 
and  confused  by  his  sense  of  defeats.  He  wanted  to 
ask  a  way — surely  a  woman  could  devise  a  pretext 
that  would  avert  the  tragedy  of  the  Captain's  dream 
to-morrow.  The  pup  thrust  a  cold  nose  to  his  hand  as 
they  stood  in  the  passage.  It  comforted  him  with  a 
sense  of  faith  remaining.  He  had  reached  a  hand  here, 
there  through  the  dark  to  whatever  common  good  was 
about  him,  and  each  human  contact  had  dissolved — he 
had  found  nothing,  bound  nothing;  he  had  been 
stripped  to  his  soul  of  even  the  mean  gifts  with  which 
he  had  begun.  Another  day  and  even  the  gray  house 
from  which  he  had  watched  his  retreat,  step  by  step, 
losing  his  battles  at  every  turn,  would  reject  him ;  he 
would  stand  alone  in  the  town  that  had  no  place  for 
him  in  all  its  life,  the  evil  or  the  good. 

Looking  again  in  his  rooms,  the  little  hyacinth  a  blur 
in  the  young  moonlight,  he  went  slowly  up  the  stairs. 
There,  by  the  Captain's  side,  at  least  he  might  find  a 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  371 

hand  put  to  his,  even  the  hand  of  a  dying-  man.  At 
least  here  he  did  not  fear — he  could  look  the  old  man 
in  the  eyes,  stand  erect  before  his  judgment  as  he 
might  his  father's.  So,  in  the  dusk,  he  went  above. 

The  Captain  was  as  he  had  left  him,  on  his  back,  his 
hands  clasped  on  the  sword  hilt  on  his  faded  sash. 

But  he  was  dead. 

The  younger  man  watched  quietly  after  the  first 
touch  to  his  hands.  The  face  was  peaceful,  its  familiar 
frown  relaxing,  the  bushy  brows  concealing  the  scar, 
the  gray  imperial  lending  its  martial  artifice — the  sol- 
dier's grandeur  encompassed  the  chamber's  gloom  and 
gave  to  the  watcher  peace.  He  sat  on  the  bed  arranging 
the  sword-knot  in  the  veteran's  fingers,  smoothing  the 
coat  between  the  little  eagles  of  the  republic.  A  great 
campaign  was  ended,  a  voyage  done. 

Through  the  dark  the  Lime  Point  fog-horn  moaned ; 
from  the  window  he  saw  the  thin  drift  across  the  cres- 
cent moon.  He  was  alone,  indeed ;  one  by  one  they  had 
dropped  from  him,  Granny,  the  children,  Nella,  Law- 
rence Calhoun's  father.  He  had  been  a  reckless  fighter, 
a  careless,  jesting  leader;  and 'one  by  one,  fate  had 
wrested  from  him  whatever  hostages  had  held  him  to 
the  faint  good  in  him.  Well,  no  matter — he  had  fought 
and  the  long  campaign  was  done. 

For  hours  he  sat  alone,  the  dead  soldier's  peace  on 
him  as  a  benediction.  He  grew  great  with  a  thought 
that  his  leader  had  come  back ;  and  that  with  him,  an- 
other presence  had  come  in  judgment — his  father,  who 
had  put  his  faith  in  him  and  sent  him  from  the  prison's 
gate,  content. 

The  watcher  took  the  Captain's  sword  from  his  dead 


372  THE   DAY   OF    SOULS 

fingers  and  set  it  against  the  wall,  where  the  moonlight 
fell  on  it  until  it  was  a  bar  of  silver  in  the  dusk. 
Through  his  mind  there  came  a  thing  he  had  read,  he 
knew  not  when,  nor  where : 

"This  man  was  one  of  those  old  fighting  fellows 
Whose  soul  did  choose  to  follow  the  Great  Captain, 

And  so  he  passed  out  into  the  darkness — 
What  did  he  win  but  darkness? 

Ask  the  Captain — 

You'll  find  the  Captain  out  there  in  the  darkness." 

And  as  he  watched  through  the  hours,  there  came 
to  him  a  remembrance  that  this  was  the  festal  day  of 
the  ancient  Samurai,  of  which  Arasaka  had  once  told 
him — the  vigil  in  which  only  those  may  face  the  fight- 
ing men  who  have  made  clear  their  honor — The  Day 
of  Souls. 

A  vision  came  to  his  eyes ;  he  seemed  to  be  with  the 
Captain  in  the  moonlight-flooded  square.  They  saw 
the  Victory  rising  from  its  white  shaft  above  the  night, 
immutable,  serene,  triumphant. 

A  sound  came  from  the  rooms  below.  Arnold  lis- 
tened by  the  staircase  window,  his  eyes  on  the  glimmer- 
ing flood-tide  through  the  Gate,  and  the  Marin  Moun- 
tains that  lay  beyond  like  a  heap  of  crushed  velvet  in 
the  dark.  The  floor  creaked,  and  as  he  went  down,  an 
exclamation  came  from  the  front  rooms.  There  he 
found  Nella.  She  was  lighting  his  student  lamp,  and 
looked  up  from  it  with  startled  eyes.  Then  she  laughed. 

"I  came  back,"  she  went  on  with  her  usual  abrupt 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  373 

lightness.  "I  went  out  to  Sheehan's  and  the  Beach  and 
danced.  There  were  a  lot  of  us — Bernice  and  Louis,  in 
his  car — and  the  boys  bought  a  lot  of  champagne/' 
Her  inconsequent  laugh  rang  out.  "But  it's  funny — I 
couldn't  'make  believe'  any  more,  like  the  old  days.  I'm 
a  fool,  I  suppose,  but  I  got  to  thinking  who'd  get  the 
Captain's  breakfast — and  at  one  o'clock  I  skipped." 

"I  was  expecting  you,"  he  answered. 

"Expecting?  Why,  didn't  the  woman  preacher  tell 
you  I'd  quit  ?  And  my  note  ?  I  came  back  to  get  break- 
fast to-morrow — that's  all.  Ham,  how's  the  Captain  ?" 

"Come,"  he  said,  and  took  her  hand,  drawing  her  to 
the  stairs. 

She  did  not  know  until  he  placed  her  hand  on  the 
soldier's,  and  then  she  fell  back  with  a  cry  and  stood 
staring. 

"It's  fine,"  the  young  man  whispered,  "Nel,  I've 
been  here  alone  five  hours." 

"Alone?" 

"Yes.  Did  you  think  I'd  bring  a  lot  of  gabbling 
women  from  the  block  to  disturb  that  picture?  To- 
morrow we'll  tell  the  Presidio  people,  and  they'll  bury 
him  with  the  soldiers  out  there.  But  to-night — he's 
alone.  It's  fine." 

Nella  sat  in  the  window-seat,  with  the  moonlight  on 
her  borrowed  plumes  and  the  silken  skirt.  "Kid,  you're 
changed  so,"  she  whispered. 

He  smiled.  "Have  I  ?  I've  thought  of  something  to 
change  a  man." 

She  did  not  understand :  "Then  you  saw  them — that 
preacher  woman  brought  Sylvia  to  you  after  all?" 

He  started.  "To  me?  What  have  you  been  doing?" 


374  THE   DAY   OF   SOULS 

"She  said  she'd  bring  her  to  you — if  she  did,  I'd 
believe  a  good  deal  in  religion."  She  laughed  slightly. 
"But  you  can't  understand,  Hammy !" 

He  was  beyond  giving  concern  to  women  to-night; 
he  went  on  gravely.  "An  hour  ago  I  remembered  what 
this  night  meant — the  old  righting  men  are  coming 
back.  I'm  not  afraid  of  anything  they  can  ask  us." 

His  mood  frightened  her.  "Who?"  she  whispered. 
"Ask  what?" 

"It's  an  old  story,  Nel.  But  we'd  have  to  come  clean 
to-night  to  face  the  righting  men." 

She  shivered  in  the  stillness.  But  after  a  while,  as 
they  sat  long,  with  the  murmur  of  the  city  far  off  and 
the  beauty  of  the  night  over  the  sea  and  land  from  the 
windows,  the  girl  rose  and  went  to  the  Captain's  side. 

She  stood  for  many  minutes.  "It's  grand,"  she  whis- 
pered. "Just  peace." 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

An  hour  later  Arnold  heard  the  wheels  of  a  carriage 
turn  on  the  cobbles  below  the  balcony.  He  went  to  the 
windows  to  peer  out.  On  the  broad  seat  Nella  slept. 
Tired  out  by  the  excitement  of  the  day,  confused  by  the 
night's  mysteries,  she  would  not  have  stayed  awake  for 
a  vision  of  paradise.  Yet  her  unfearing  now,  in  the 
room  with  the  dead  man,  struck  Arnold  as  odd.  He 
left  them  and  went  below. 

On  the  stairs  from  the  street  he  met  Grace  Wayne 
in  no  surprise,  for  it  could  be  none  other.  She  gave 
him  her  hand  with  a  smile  high  in  faith,  as  if  now,  in 
common  understanding,  words  were  little. 

"It's  a  strange  hour  to  come,"  she  began,  "but  you 
know  how  I  always  loved  the  night — its  peace  and  con- 
secration. Will  you  understand  me  if  I  say  I've  tried  to 
come  in  that  spirit  ?  I  know  everything,  now,  I  think." 

"Nel  told  me,"  he  answered,  and  then  in  a  sort  of 
fear,  "Sylvia — and  she — she  is  well,  and  you  brought 
her—" 

"She  is  here."  The  woman  looked  proudly  at  him. 
"She  did  not  want  to  come — she  seemed  to  fear  you, 
but  I  told  her  it  was  for  something  more  than  herself — 
to  clear  up  much  so  that  each  of  us  could  be  steadfast — 
so  that  all  pretense  could  be  put  away.  Do  you  under- 
stand me  ?" 

"Good  God,"  he  muttered,  starting,  "you  brought 
her!  Look  here — what  can  I  say  or  do?" 

375 


376  THE  DAY   OF   SOULS 

"Nel  thought  you  loved  her." 

"No,"  he  answered,  "she  was  as  far  beyond  me  as  the 
stars.  I  tell  you,  I've  got  to  go  another  way — not  so 
fine  a  way,  but  I  earned  it ;  not  so  pure  a  way,  maybe — 
but  I  fought  for  it.  I  know  the  cost." 

He  could  not  guess  the  tumult  sweeping  her,  rising 
above  her  own  doubts  and  weariness,  stamping  in- 
dubitably her  faith  in  him.  He  only  saw  her  face  in 
the  half-light,  calm,  resolute  in  tenderness.  She  went 
on  in  this  sweet  dignity,  yet  as  if  humbled  before  him : 
"To-night  I  learned  everything  from  her — all  she  had 
been  to  you.  I  know,  too,  that  I  lost  her  money  that 
night  I  met  you.  I  have,  to-day,  repaid  her  everything. 
It  has  freed  you — freed  me.  I  think  we  are  both  more 
honest  now."  She  smiled  in  a  rare  intimacy  and  he 
was  troubled.  "We've  learned  much,  haven't  we,  John  ? 
It  seems  that  I  have  had  to  come  to  your  life,  your 
world,  to  learn !" 

He  tried  to  evade  her  confidence.  An  hour  ago  his 
way  had  seemed  clear  and  comforting — now  he  wan- 
dered in  intricate  irresolutions. 

Grace  went  on  clearly :  "Well,  I  brought  her.  It  was 
for  my  conscience's  sake  and  yours.  She  waited  in  the 
carriage.  Can  you  face  her  ?" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "after  all,  I'm  not  afraid."  But  when 
he  had  gone  to  the  street  he  had  a  strange  dread,  for 
Sylvia  stood  before  him  as  he  had  brought  her  up 
these  steps  on  that  first  night,  her  eyes  wide,  her  girl's 
face  pretty,  unscathed,  her  hand  to  her  hair  with  the 
old  doubtful  trick,  as  when  she  listened  to  the  whim- 
sical speeches  of  his  love-making.  She  brought  that 
summer  to  him,  the  North  stillness,  the  secret  places 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  377 

of  the  redwood  canons  tangling  the  drift  of  fog  from 
the  Mendocino  coast — and  beyond  was  the  country-up- 
in-back,  the  dry  smell  and  quiver  of  the  tawny  hills 
under  the  sun.  She  stood  now,  the  beautiful  spirit  of 
it  all,  pure  before  the  stain  and  tatter  of  his  life. 

He  moved  as  if  to  take  her  hand  and  then  turned 
away.  "Sylvia!" 

"You  don't  want  to  speak,  John,  do  you  ?"  she  began 
softly.  "Now,  let's  just  forget.  I'm  going  home — I  only 
came  because  she  wanted  me  to."  The  girl  came 
nearer.  "You  look  so  changed — much  older.  I'm  sorry 
— it  was  intended  so,  I  suppose.  And  I  forgive  you." 

He  had  not  looked  for  this  simplicity  of  courage.  It 
struck  him  to  the  heart  as  no  tears  nor  reproach  could 
have  hurt  him.  "I've  tried,"  he  muttered.  "Sylvia,  you 
began  it  all — it  was  you  that  first  began  the  fight.  Ah, 
well,  little  girl,  I  wish  I  knew  what  to  say.  It  would 
sound  cheap  to  tell  you  I'm  sorry.  There's  nothing  I 
can  say — you're  fine  and  true — "  He  looked  beyond 
her  to  the  gray  house  in  the  dark,  that  had  sheltered 
him  and  his  sore  hurts  and  failures — no,  he  could  never 
make  her  understand  the  gulf  between  her  simplicity 
and  his  misrule.  He  turned  away  again.  "And  now 
you're  going  home.  Sylvia,  I  wish  I  could  talk  more 
to  you,  but  I  can't.  Don't  you  understand — something's 
dead  in  me." 

"No — "  she  whispered — "but  see,  I'm  crying  and  I 
promised  I  wouldn't!  No,  let  me  go.  I'll  sail  to- 
morrow for  the  North."  She  went  to  the  carriage  door 
and  turned :  "John,  let's  just  be  glad  that  we  discov- 
ered we  weren't  for  each  other." 

He  let  her  go  from  him  in  this  show  of  courage,  and 


378  THE   DAY   OF    SOULS 

went  up  the  stairs  to  meet  Grace  on  the  balcony.  She 
watched  him  expectantly.  "It's  done,"  she  said,  "and 
it's  best.  You've  cut  another  bond  to  the  old  life,  the 
old  memories.  John  Arnold,  it's  not  how  a  man's  lived, 
nor  what  he's  done  but  what  he  brings  through  it  all 
that  counts." 

He  wondered  at  this  new  faith,  or  perhaps  her  old 
newly  seen.  Out  of  her  fullness  of  power,  disengaging 
to  him  a  tenderness  he  had  never  felt,  it  seemed  that, 
after  all,  she  had  not  been  so  far  from  him  or  his  world. 
But  he  answered  quietly:  "Yes.  And  I've  brought 
through  little.  I  can  show  it  all  so  easily.  Now,  I  know 
I'll  never  find  the  highest  way,  the  heights  you  tried  to 
lead  me  to.  But  there's  something  else  for  a  man." 
And  as  she  seemed  uncomprehending,  he  added: 
'"Come,  I'll  show  you  what  I  mean." 

She  went  with  him,  as  Nella  had  done,  to  the  Cap- 
tain's chamber.  She  nodded  in  surprise,  after  bending 
above  the  dead  man;  then  she  saw  Nella  in  the  win- 
dow-seat. 

"This  is  the  night  the  fighting  men  come  back,"  Ar- 
nold smiled  to  her.  "No  man  dares  face  them  with  his 
soul  unclean.  See  here — we've  waited  and  Nel  has 
€ven  slept — and  no  sign  has  come.  It's  been  all  night 
just  as  she  said — just  peace." 

"O,  what  is  in  you?"  the  mystic  cried,  under  her 
breath.  "After  all,  are  you  a  dreamer,  awaiting  sym- 
bols?" 

"No,"  he  retorted ;  "just  a  fellow  who's  finding  the 
way  for  himself.  Not  your  way  nor  the  way  of  any 
faith  or  creed  or  system — just  his  own  way  hammered 
out — and  I  tell  you  it  cost  something." 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  379 

It  seemed  that  her  exalted  passion  sank  beneath  his 
mood.  They  sat  in  the  silent  room.  An  hour  passed; 
the  fog  drifted  from  the  Gate;  the  stars  wheeled  low 
on  the  Marin  Hills,  a  spangle  of  light  in  a  cloudy  pass. 
They  thought  the  day  was  near  at  last,  yet  it  was  only 
an  expectance  in  the  summer  night.  After  a  while 
Nella  shivered  in  the  cool  air  and  Arnold  went  to  throw 
a  robe  about  her.  He  found  Grace  at  his  side;  their 
hands  met  in  the  common  service.  She  smiled. 

"You  are  a  believer  in  mysteries — I  told  you  so  long 
ago,"  she  whispered.  "I  tried  to  plead  with  you  to 
make  that  clear — then  nothing  else  would  have  mat- 
tered." 

He  saw  her  face,  steadfast  in  its  old  tenderness.  She 
could  not  hide  this  indwelling  triumph — this  was  the 
symbol  of  their  progression — to  watch  for  the  new  day 
in  this  communion  on  the  hilltop.  This  had  been  his 
way,  his  upward  coming  through  the  last  doubt  and 
fear — he  was  with  her  in  understanding.  He  would 
even  know  that  she  loved  him — that  the  red  flame  of 
his  life  had  burned  away  her  own  false  barriers,  had 
torn  the  idle  wrappings  from  her  selfness,  had  freed 
her  for  a  human  service.  Yes,  he  had  broken  through 
the  splendid  hollow  globe  of  her  spiritual  aloofness, 
and  miraculously  his  flame  of  life  had  burned  itself 
clear.  This,  indeed,  must  be  their  symbol — to  stand  here 
together  in  this  common  work.  She  looked  on  him  with 
triumphing  faith.  But  after  a  while  he  spoke  in  serious 
authority:  "It  must  be  toward  morning — and  there's 
Sylvia  waiting  for  you." 

"I  know,"  she  answered,  "but  this  has  been  a  won- 
derful hour  for  you.  And  for  me — for  all  of  us." 


380  THE  DAY  OF  SOULS 

He  smiled  gratefully  at  her  apparent  understanding. 
"Yes,  we  can  go  on  now.  It's  like  a  home-coming  to 
me — to  Nel  and  me." 

She  watched  him  go  to  raise  the  curtain  above  the 
sleeping  girl  and  look  off  to  the  East.  Some  divination 
came  to  her.  "Nel?  I  wondered  what  you  would  do 
about  her,  when  you  go  to  the  hills — to  find  yourself — 
as  you  promised  me." 

"There's  a  way,"  he  answered,  "and  I'm  finding  it. 
Ncl's  tried  and  she's  not  failed.  No,  in  nothing  has  she 
failed,"  he  added.  "After  this,  nothing  could  matter." 

"I  don't  understand  you,  John  ?" 

"I've  been  working  this  week.  It's  at  the  foundation 
for  the  Mutual  Bank  Building.  I'm  a  cement  mixer's 
helper,  and  I  get  a  dollar  and  seventy-five  cents  a  day. 
And  those  fellows  are  going  to  get  me  in  their  union, 
too.  It's  only  a  hole,  but  I  can  look  up  and  see  the  sky. 
Seems  like  I'd  been  about  this  town  all  my  life  and 
never  knew  before  how  blue  the  sky  is!"  He  turned 
to  her  with  a  smile.  "I'm  not  going  to  quit  the  town. 
And  Nel,  she's  the  only  woman  who  could  understand 
— she's  paid  the  price  with  me.  And  I'm  pretty  weak 
and  wild.  Suppose  I  lost  my  hold  and  went  down 
after  all — who'd  understand,  save  Nel  ?" 

The  mystic's  eyes  did  not  waver  from  his  face. 

"You  mean?"  she  questioned,  clearly  but  low.  "Tell 
me?" 

"Nel's  only  what  life  makes  her — and  she's  tried." 

Slowly  the  splendor  darkened,  the  faith  was  hum- 
bled in  the  other's  soul. 

"Is  this  your  way  of  happiness?  John,  is  this  the 
way — for  you?" 


"I'm  going  back  the  way  of  men,"  he  muttered.     Page 


THE   DAY   OF   SOULS  381 

"A  man  does  not  need  happiness.  He  can  make  his 
own  conditions,  if  he's  big  enough.  And  I'm  big 
enough.  A  fellow  has  to  fail  to  understand.  Yes,  I'm 
big  enough,  I  tell  you/' 

Grace  had  turned  to  watch  out  the  balcony  window 
the  transfiguration  of  the  night.  She  stepped  past  the 
girl's  form  to  the  cool  air.  It  was,  presently,  as  if  she 
stood  alone  on  the  top  of  the  earth,  and  a  new  day  was 
born ;  as  though  this  peace  were  a  fresh  page,  on  which, 
in  another  hour,  would  be  written  the  drama  of  the 
world.  Huge,  real,  exquisite  with  issues;  but  through 
these  common  lives  of  men  were  beaten  ways  divine, 
mystic  as  her  own.  Yes,  there  was  divinity,  human- 
rough  and  stained,  as  there  was  a  Christ  who  had  lived 
the  world's  life,  and  who  had  died  with  the  weak,  on 
His  lips  a  cry,  unfortified  by  the  complacence  of  the 
Infinite. 

She  looked  now  on  the  girl  at  her  feet,  on  the  man 
beyond.  She  had  come  an  untroubled  traverse,  calmly 
awaiting  all  the  good  of  life,  of  all  lives  and  phases  and 
transmutations ;  for  to  the  soul  awakened,  nothing  was 
withheld.  And  her  mystical  faith  held  to  him — he  had 
risen,  he  was  affined  her  own. 

But  she  watched  them.  They  had  always  doubted, 
and  she  had  doubted  nothing ;  their  ways  had  stumbled, 
while  hers  was  secure ;  they  had  struggled  at  desperate 
costs  to  pitiful  gains,  while  she  had  lacked  nothing. 
But  out  of  her  tideless  soul  the  storm  was  beating,  a 
passionate  certitude  claiming  him.  She  saw  herself 
alone  as  she  had  always  been  in  the  lands  and  cities 
and  seas  of  her  journey  ings,  her  spiritual  adventure — 
alone  and  with  empty  hands.  Yes,  until  now,  she  had 


382  THE  DAY   OF   SOULS 

held  herself  from  life,  and,  it  seemed,  had  failed.  It 
seemed  there  was  something  else  needed  than  the  vision 
of  the  soul's  transcendence,  of  its  mystic  mutations  and 
return  to  Nirvana.  It  was  not  for  nothing  that  those 
shattered,  lost  in  the  gulf  into  which  she  had  curiously 
looked,  cried  in  their  agony  but  stopped  to  bind  one 
another's  wounds.  It  was  not  for  nothing  that  life,  with 
crippled  wings,  beat  a  slow  way  vainly  and  beyond  the 
pale  of  the  spirit.  Now,  she  saw  as  she  had  not  seen. 

Arnold's  voice  came  to  her  widening  thought.  "I 
want  you  to  know,"  he  said  simply,  "how  you've  helped 
me  in  the  tough  old  fight.  Perhaps  you  were  right — 
perhaps  I'm  above  all  that.  The  city — I  hated  it — its 
life — its  men — its  savage  wars — yes,  all  society — there 
was  no  good  in  it.  But  now  it  seems  like  something 
was  rising  underneath  its  commonness  and  corruption, 
the  lies  and  mobs  and  pretense.  Perhaps  you're  right 
— there's  a  soul  rising  through  it  all!  I've  never  be- 
lieved nor  cared — I  was  only  a  nameless  bit  away  down 
at  the  bottom,  but  look — I've  done  something !  O,  San 
Francisco!  That's  what  it  means,  and  all  America 
means,  and  all  the  fight  beyond!  We  don't  die  down 
in  the  dirt  for  nothing,  do  we  ?  I  think  I  know  now — 
I  understand  all  you  tried  to  teach." 

She  looked  on  the  light  of  his  face ;  and  he  saw  now 
in  her  own,  a  courage  rise,  a  transfiguring  exultation. 
And  with  an  inarticulate  cry  she  took  his  hand  on  the 
railing.  "Go  on — you're  teaching  me !  And,  O,  this  is 
like  you — like  you !  What  can't  you  do — or  be  ?" 

"I'm  going  back  the  way  of  men,"  he  muttered. 
"They'll  let  me  in  their  union,  and  maybe  some  day 
there'll  be  something  of  use  for  all  of  them — in  me. 


THE  DAY  OF   SOULS  383 

Something  for  what  they're  after — the  social  brother- 
hood, the  better  way — yes,  from  me,  the  lone  wolf  who 
hated  them." 

Grace  looked  at  him,  laughing  curiously;  she  took 
his  hand  again  with  a  child's  fine  gaiety.  "Yes — yes — 
that  is  your  way!"  There  was  in  her  a  proud  and  un- 
defeated surety.  "And  beyond  it  all,  I'll  wait  for  you — 
love  you!"  With  this  she  left  him,  going  down  the 
stairs.  In  the  street  he  heard  the  carriage  turn. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

At  seven  o'clock  the  sun  was  high,  and  above  the 
morning  damp  on  the  moldered  boards  and  thin  grass 
of  the  alley,  it  fell  through  the  window  of  the  attic  in  a 
square  of  yellow  warmth  on  the  floor.  The  breeze  from 
the  ocean  over  hills  and  housetops  streamed  across  this 
patch  of  sunlight,  touching  the  Captain's  face. 

The  dead  man  lay  alone,  untroubled  by  human  min- 
istrations, his  fingers  stiff  in  the  silken  sword-knot,  the 
tricolored  button  of  the  Loyal  Legion  vivid  against  the 
dark  blue  coat.  Into  this  peace — a  stillness,  yet  per- 
vaded by  the  detached  and  subtle  morning  hum  of  a 
place  of  people — a  sparrow  swept  like  a  gray  arrow 
through  the  sunlight,  circling  the  room  to  the  head- 
board of  the  bed  where  it  lit,  jerking  a  beady  eye,  now 
down  at  the  dead  man,  now  up  at  the  window,  uncer- 
tain of  escape,  breaking  the  silence  with  its  shrill  call. 

From  the  hall  languidly  came  the  cat  of  the  deserted 
Family  Liquor  Store  to  sit  in  the  square  of  sunlight 
and  blink,  cropfull,  at  the  scolding  bird.  Its  slit  eyes 
narrowed  in  the  brightness,  opening,  closing,  until, 
overcome  by  the  warmth  and  its  animal  stupor,  it  laid 
to  watch  the  sparrow  working  itself  to  fury,  hopping1 
and  chirping  on  the  bedstead.  From  the  bird's  ruffled 
neck  a  small  feather  floated  down  in  intricate  spirals 
to  rest  on  the  Captain's  cheek;  and  this  little  drama 
went  on — the  small,  gray  bird  jerking  out  its  insistent 

384 


THE  DAY  OF   SOULS  385 

"Chee-it — chee-ya!"  the  cat  outstretched,  sheathing 
and  unsheathing  its  claws  in  the  carpet  with  benign 
closings  of  its  black  slit  eyes  in  their  yellow  lakes; 
while  on  the  cheek  of  the  dead  soldier  poised  the  tiny 
feather,  its  microscopic  fronds  exquisite,  upright,  alive 
in  the  buoyant,  illimitable  ether. 

John  Arnold  came  after  a  while  to  look  on  this  affair 
— the  play  of  little  life  about  the  majestic  dead. 
The  calm,  the  brilliant  day,  the  mischievous  and  incon- 
sequent portent  of  the  cat  and  bird  promised  cheerily 
of  a  large  simplicity;  they  struck  down  problem  and 
debate,  they  disdained  question  beyond  the  hour  and 
act.  So  it  seemed,  one  could  live,  doing  away  with 
ghosts  and  guesses. 

A  smell  of  breakfast  getting  came  from  the  rooms 
below.  In  the  front  apartment  was  the  little  table  that 
Nella  had  set  in  the  sunshine  pouring  across  the  bal- 
cony on  the  silver  and  china  trailed  about  with  wistaria. 
Nella,  her  hair  under  a  white  cap,  a  snowy  apron  about 
her,  turned  with  a  droll  wonder,  rubbing  her  sleepy 
eyes. 

"See!  I  set  it  for  the  medal  man,  but  it's  pretty 
enough  for  a  bride !" 

Laughingly  she  ran  back  to  the  kitchen  in  that  curi- 
ous pleasure  a  woman  finds  in  the  doing  of  the  small 
things  of  a  house  when  there  seems  above  it  content. 
"I'm  shirring  the  eggs,"  she  called.  "It's  as  though 
things  were  common  and  they're  not !" 

The  young  man  on  the  balcony  watched  the  banded 
sky  to  the  west,  the  bay  water  like  a  gray  plain  of 
ashes  smoking  damp,  the  islands  smudged  in  the  levels. 
"No,  they  never  will  be,  Nel,  if  I  can  help." 


386  THE   DAY   OF    SOULS 

She  came  back  with  more  breakfast  things.  "I'd 
better  put  on  more  for  fear  they  might  come  early," 
she  went  on.  "Surely,  they  will  be  here  before  the  army 
people  take  away  the  Captain." 

Arnold  turned  to  her  with  a  sort  of  threat.  "Nel, 
they're  not  coming — Miss  Wayne  and  the  other  girl." 

"Not  coming  ?    Why,  she  promised — " 

"They've  been  here,"  he  retorted,  "in  the  night 
while  you  slept.  And  they  went  away — for  good. 
After  all,  some  things  come  right." 

She  opened  her  blue  eyes  more  widely  still.  "You 
sent  them  away?"  she  cried,  "you?  Why,  I  was  plan- 
ning for  you  and  that  Sylvia — I  thought  this  table 
would  be  pretty  for  you  after  all." 

She  came  to  read  him  shrewdly.  "Surely  you  cared 
— it's  best  to  have  some  one  to  believe  in — even  if  it 
isn't  true.  Here's  that  soldier  and  his  medal — he  just 
kept  me  from  going  wild.  Yes,  it's  best  for  a  woman 
to  have  some  one  to  believe  in  somewhere.  Sometimes, 
Hammy,  I  try  to  guess  at  things.  It's  as  if  we  all  sat 
in  the  dark  wondering  about  each  other :  why  I  should 
be  careless  Nel,  and  you  so  troubled,  and  the  Captain 
very  brave,  and  that  preacher-woman  so  serene — and 
all  the  children  down  the  block  so  happy.  O,  I 
wonder !" 

He  looked  at  Her — where,  indeed,  was  there  place  for 
this  careless  soul  in  the  world  of  the  spirit  ?  She  of  the 
earth,  the  life  that  bred  in  the  sun  and  passed  and  was 
content  ? 

"Nothing  that  lives  and  works  and  gives  love — the 
very  least  of  love — is  less  than  the  greatest.  Nel,  you're 
great  as  the  greatest — do  you  understand?" 


THE   DAY   OF    SOULS  387 

She  looked  at  him  with  startled,  uncomprehending 
eyes.  "What  love?"  she  answered.  "I  never  have. 
Love  who  ?" 

He  pointed  upward,  and  after  a  moment  she  laughed, 
a  sudden  shy  gratefulness  in  her  eyes. 

"O,  an  old  blind  man — and  a  kiddie  that  didn't  have 
a  home !"  she  retorted.  "What's  that  amount  to  ?"  She 
went  to  arrange  the  silver  with  hands  uncertain  in  con- 
fusion. "But  it's  just  fine  to  think  so."  She  crossed  to 
him  impulsively,  her  hands  out  to  the  lapels  of  his 
coat.  "Seems  like  your  thinking  so  has  kept  me  at 
it  all  the  time.  And  now — have  you  given  that  girl  up  ? 
And  when  are  you  going  to  the  hills?"  She  watched 
him  dissembling  with  her  old  good-humor.  "You  know 
the  place  is  sold  to  the  Chinese — we'll  have  to  quit  each 
other  and  drift  somewhere." 

"No,  I'm  not  going  to  have  that.  Nel,  you'll  go  with 
me." 

She  sat  back,  and  while  the  sparrows  twittered  in 
the  breeze,  she  studied  the  tip  of  her  finger.  Then  she 
turned  seriously :  "Go  ? — Live  with  you  ?" 

"Marry  me.  Look  here — we've  no  need  of  pretense 
— we  know  the  big  old  fight.  We  can  keep  on  trying, 
chum — somewhere." 

"But  if  we  cared,"  she  murmured,  "if  we  only  did !" 

"It's  curious  you  think  of  that.  Nel,  you  dreamer — 
you  idealist !" 

The  girl  was  still.  Presently  she  sat  forward,  watch- 
ing his  intent.  "A  woman  must  go  on  and  live,  I  sup- 
pose— somehow.  But  this — no — "  she  smiled  in  a  dis- 
tant tenderness.  "Hammy,  you  mustn't  mind  me.  You 
go  to  the  Sierras  as  you  dreamed,  and  ride  and  shoot 


388  THE  DAY   OF    SOULS 

and  be  a  man,  brown  and  strong  and  fine.  But  for  me 
— why  the  woods  scare  me — and  I  wouldn't  wear  any- 
thing but  a  French  heel  for  the  world!"  She  thrust 
before  him  her  small  perfectly  clad  foot.  "Look — could 
that  climb  a  mountain,  or  ride  a  broncho  ?  I'd  make  a 
fine  range  rider's  wife !  O,  while  you  were  away  some 
fellow'd  come  riding  over  the  mountains  and  I'd  flirt 
with  him — "  she  turned  to  him  with  her  arch  humor. 
"Kid,  I'd  go  wild.  I'm  just  contrary  Nel — and  I 
couldn't  leave  San  Francisco !" 

"Suppose  you  loved  me  ?"  he  answered,  and  it  drove 
the  laughter  from  her  eyes — "suppose  you  did  ?" 

"I'd  climb  all  the  mountains — I'd  ride  all  the  dark 
nights.  I'd  work  my  fingers  worse  than  this — "  she 
looked  at  their  scars.  "O,  love — that  would  be  the 
greatest  thing !" 

He  watched  her  steadily  as  she  sat  on  the  balcony 
rail,  a  heap  of  color  in  the  sun,  laughing  her  confused 
failure  to  meet  his  eyes,  looking  off  to  the  last  mist  in 
the  harbor  way.  "There's  one  thing  I've  not  told  you, 
Nel.  I'm  going  to  stick  to  that  job  down  there — there's 
somethirig  big  to  hammer  out.  The  boys  are  to  get  me 
into  the  union,  and  I'll  stay."  To  her  wondering,  he 
went  on:  "Chum,  here's  where  we  made  our  fight — 
and  lost.  And  now  we'll  stay — the  city  needs  its  men 
2nd  women.  Yes — "  he  retorted  to  her  evasion,  "you've 
got  to  stand  by  me  in  the  big  fight — Nel,  you  under- 
stand?" 

Her  blue  eyes  were  big  with  comprehension,  grow- 
ing to  an  exquisite  tenderness.  "Just  to  try  and  love 
you  sometime?"  she  whispered,  her  eyes  still  wide  on 
him. 


THE  DAY  OF  SOULS  389 

"Just  to  try  sometime  and  go  on,"  he  answered.  "O, 
Nel,  we  can't  go  far  alone !" 

She  rose  softly  and  through  the  door  she  caught  up 
the  wistaria  from  the  table  and  laughingly  drifted  it 
about  his  head.  "O,  boy !  Just  to  go  on  somehow — and 
let  me  help?  You  go  be  a  man  down  there — and  let 
me  help?  It's  grand!" 

And,  laughing  again,  she  drew  his  head  to  her  breast 
and  kissed  his  cheek,  laughing,  and  yet  shy  with 
pathos,  the  voyage  done,  her  own  long- wandering  heart 
now  humble  by  the  one  before  her. 

In  the  sunlight  they  were  still,  looking  in  a  dream 
from  the  height  down  to  the  life  out  of  which  they  had 
come.  But  after  a  while  Arnold  stirred,  leaned  to  drink 
in  the  breeze  across  the  hilltop.  "I  promised  the  fore- 
man I'd  go  help  on  the  second  shift  at  ten  o'clock.  Nel, 
I'm  going." 

"Yes,  you  must,"  she  whispered,  "and  I'll  have 
things  pretty  for  you  to-night,  when  you  come — home !" 

At  noon  Grace  Wayne  was  on  her  way  to  the  ferry. 
At  the  transfer  corner  on  Market  Street,  where  the  tide 
of  life  was  engulfed  by  the  kindly  sun,  men  were  idling 
about  the  excavation  of  the  new  bank  building,  watch- 
ing the  descent  of  a  huge  steel  beam  to  the  foundations 
of  cement  where  the  derrick  engine  chuttered.  She 
stopped  with  a  sharp  intake  of  breath  at  the  sight  of 
a  blue-Housed  workman  with  an  arm  outstretched 
above  the  chaos  of  steel  and  concrete.  "Long  she  looked, 
tenderly,  triumphantly.  The  curve  of  life  was  fast  bear- 
ing them  far  from  this  brief  contact,  but  her  mystic 
vision  went  across  the  span. 


390  THE  DAY   OF   SOULS 

"He'll  know,"  she  murmured.  "Beyond  this  great 
way  he  shall  see  clearer — he  shall  know !" 

And  to  her  it  seemed  again  that  she  was  looking  on 
a  sea  of  faces  in  the  pit  of  earth,  raised  above  them 
under  the  flare  of  light ;  but  now,  to  her  words  they 
turned  in  gladness;  she  had  come  to  them  the  lower 
way,  telling  the  kindlier  law  for  the  quickening  spirit 
behind  the  dull  metal  they  were  beating  to  fine  ends. 
To  her  wondrous  consciousness  of  God  few  had  come ; 
she  had  descended  to  the  divinity  of  all-giving  life,  the 
common  love  she  had  evaded;  and  though  she  went 
again  alone,  she  was  of  the  great  company  of  those  for 
whom  there  is  no  home  glow  waiting  at  the  end  of  day, 
who  give  all  and  expect  nothing,  who  love  and  yet  go 
alone,  as  the  soul  must  go  alone.  So,  from  the  dusty 
roadsides,  she  found  God  had  come — this  was  her  new 
evolution,  from  the  common  love  and  infinite  failures 
He  had  sprung. 

The  man  in  the  pit  of  earth  looked  curiously  up  in 
a  pause  of  his  work.  He  saw  the  blue  sky,  the  brilliant 
sun  shot  through  with  patches  of  white  steam ;  he  heard 
the  throb  of  the  engine  drum,  the  shrilling  whistle 
above  the  brawl  of  hammers;  he  had  a  glimpse  of  a 
woman  passing,  enveloped  by  the  crowds,  the  city 
swarming,  eager  with  life  about  the  foundations  where, 
with  brain  and  hand,  to  some  mysterious  end,  from  the 
clean  earth,  men  build. 


THE  END 


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HAPPY  HAWKINS.    By  Robert  Alexander  Wason.   Illus- 

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A  ranch  and  cowboy  novel.  Happy  Hawkins  tells  his  own  story 
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COMRADES.    By  Thomas  Dixon,  Jr.    Illustrated  by  C.  D. 

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The  locale  of  this  story  is  in  California,  where  a  few  socialists 
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TONO-BUNGAY.    By  Herbert  George  Wells. 

The  hero  of  this  novel  is  a  young  man  who,  through  hard  work, 
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Written  with  a  frankness  verging  on  Rousseau's,  Mr.  Wells  still 
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A  HUSBAND  BY  PROXY.    By  Jack  Steele. 

A  young  criminologist,  but  recently  arrived  in  New  York  city, 
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LIKE  ANOTHER  HELEN.  By  George  Horton.  Illus- 
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Mr.  Horton's  powerful  romance  stands  in  a  new  field  and  brings 
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There  is  a  certain  new  force  about  the  story,  a  kind  of  master- 
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THE  MASTER  OF  APPLEBY.  By  Fraacis  Lynde, 
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"A  novel  tale  concerning  itself  in  part  with  the  great  struggle  in 
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A  strong,  masculine  and  persuasive  story. 

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A  story  of  American  life,  founded  on  facts  as  they  existed  some 
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A  young  artist,  whose  wife  had  recently  divorced  him,  finds  that 
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CRAIG.    By  David  Graham  Phillips.     Illustrated. 
A  young  westerner,   uncouth  and  unconventional,  appears  in 
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"  DOC."  GORDON.  By  Mary  E.  Wilkins-Freeman.  Illus- 
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HOLY  ORDERS.    By  Marie  Corelli. 

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holy  orders  " — problems  that  we  are  now  struggling  with  in  America. 

KATRINE.    By  Elinor  Macartney  Lane.  With  frontispiece. 

Katrine,  the  heroine  of  this  story,  is  a  lovely  Irish  girl,  of  lowly 
birth,  but  gifted  with  a  beautiful  voice. 

The  narrative  is  based  on  the  facts  of  an  actual  singer's  career, 
and  the  viewpoint  throughout  is  a  most  exalted  one. 

THE   FORTUNES    OF  FIFI.    By  Molly  Elliot  Seawell. 

Illustrated  by  T.  de  Thulstrup. 

A  story  of  life  in  France  at  the  time  of  the  first  Napoleon.  Fifi, 
a  glad,  mad  little  actress  of  eighteen,  is  the  star  performer  in  a  third 
rate  Parisian  theatre.  A  story  as  dainty  as  a  Watteau  painting. 

SHE  THAT  HESITATES.  By  Harris  Dickson.  Illus- 
trated by  C.  W.  Relyea. 

The  scene  of  this  dashing  romance  shifts  from  Dresden  to  St. 
Petersburg  in  the  reign  of  Peter  the  Great,  and  then  to  New  Orleans. 

The  hero  is  a  French  Soldier  of  Fortune,  and  the  princess,  who 
hesitates— but  you  must  read  the  story  to  know  how  she  that  hesitates 
may  be  lost  and  yet  saved. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  526  WEST  26th  ST.,  NEW  YORK 


